


Of the People, For the People

by ARollingStone, HarveyDangerfield



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Borderline Personality Disorder, Drug Use, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Origin Story, Overthrowing the government, Rough Sex, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, having sex to cope
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-08
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-13 10:34:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 27,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29277033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ARollingStone/pseuds/ARollingStone, https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyDangerfield/pseuds/HarveyDangerfield
Summary: An original take on Hancock's origin story, starting back from before he was a ghoul, and up through his hostile takeover of Goodneighbor, featuring an original ghoul OC who's along for the ride.
Relationships: John Hancock (Fallout)/Original Male Character(s)
Comments: 3
Kudos: 4





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hey there, thanks for giving this fic a chance! it's pretty self indulgent, retracing the steps of canon that we know from Hancock himself and fleshing it out in more detail. a couple screenshots of my spouse's ghoul oc are included at the top of the fic (with some limitations, since you can't ACTUALLY make a ghoul in-game, but it'll give you a rough idea) and just for reference, Fluffy is an albino mongrel. Onward! 👏

Okay, so maybe Goodneighbor isn't exactly what it had cracked up to be. 

Johnny had known from the start that "Goodneighbor" was an ironic name, before he even rocked up to the front gates. He knew the place had a reputation for being loose with morals and flush with chems, and most importantly, ripe with opportunity to make caps. He knew it wouldn't be a cushy place to live, but the walls kept it safe from raiders and super mutants, and the various merc gangs that extort in the area. He even met his current best friend here (at least HE'D like to think they're best friends) a nasty old pre-war ghoul with a reputation for pushing people away, but he'd managed to cozy up to the guy by risking his neck to go back for him when they took a job for Vic together. Johnny could have abandoned him and gone back to Vic and made twice the paycheck-- but he'd bet the farm and circled back to help the injured ghoul out through the back of the compound and into a highly radiated area so he could heal from his wounds, giving himself a rough dose of radiation sickness in the process. 

Since then, Dutch is tolerant of his constant pestering for stories and even taught him how to handle his gun better. His dog still hates him... but oh well, at least Dutch seems to like him.

The best part about having a friend who actually has a house in Goodneighbor is that when Vic lets his men blast through the streets and test their bats on the heads of the homeless drifters, Johnny can usually knock on Dutch's door and slip inside to hide and wait it out. That hadn't always been the case, he's lived here for almost five years on the dot, and he used to just be part of the drifter scene up until Dutch started letting him in his house about three months ago. He gets it now, why everyone always just locks their doors and turns a blind eye to it when the drifters were getting their skulls kicked in on the streets. He'd always thought they were callous, heartless bastards-- but he'd been _out there_ on the streets, he'd had his own skull kicked in more than a few times, and now that he has a door to hide behind? All he wants to do is hunker down and plug his ears and wait for the screaming to stop. 

All the drifters have come to know the telltale signs of one of Vic's "crusades" when he sends his men out to remind his people who's in charge. As if they could ever forget. The doors to Vic's house will open and his goons will come out in spades, holding their bats and batons and clubs-- nothing with blades, and no bullets had always been Vic's rule, but bludgeoning, blunt force trauma, broken bones? All on the table. 

And this time, Dutch isn't in town. Johnny scrambles to his feet as soon as Vic's thugs come out of the building, twirling and slapping their tools into their open palms, and he feels his heart slam up into his mouth. Dutch wasn't in town, he went out to make a run to the outskirts of diamond city to get a shipment of canned dog food and snack cakes from Miller and probably wouldn't be back for at least an hour. His stomach sinks into his boots as he and the other drifters all start backing away from the men, all hoping to god that this time it wouldn't be them.

They all get in the shit a little bit. Johnny raises his arms up to shield the side of his neck from a baseball bat, but the guard only brought it back around to the other side of his head all the harder (two for flinching, he says) leaving a bruise across his cheekbone and eye socket, the skin splitting delicately just over the bone of his cheek and running a single drop of blood down his face, but the abuse abruptly switches gear. He'd expected worse, tried to hunch in to protect his vitals, but while his ears were ringing and he couldn't make out exactly what was said, he knows he heard _someone_ speak up. And whatever he said, it got Vic's thugs heated. 

Their instruments of torture turned to him, instead. Johnny stumbles back away from the abuse and finds himself just standing there as they all descend on the man like vultures. He doesn't know the guy's name, but he was sharing a lukewarm beer with him not 10 minutes ago. And now he's being beaten bloody in the street, and all he does is _fucking stand there_ , making eye contact with the other people who are also _fucking standing there_ , thanking god that this time it wasn't them.

Nobody does anything, including Johnny. It's hard to argue with someone who could beat the snot out of you, or worse, cave your head in with their baseball bat. He's seen guys die like that, why does it matter anyways, they're just drifters. Just like Johnny, no place to truly call home except the streets of Goodneighbor. It's enough to paint a target over your head. 

It feels like the scene is passing in slow motion. Johnny's aware of every time the bat connects with the guy's head. Lukewarm beer comes back up as he throws up on himself from sheer terror, and when it gets on his attacker's boots, that even more reason for them to wail on him without a second thought. Vomit mixes with blood, the crunch of bone and the scream of the man roil together to create a frenzied chill in the air that passes through the bystanders, all of them. 

Nobody notices the six and a half foot ghoul that comes into town. He's not exactly a stranger, and no longer something to stare at. Most of the people know him pretty well, in a passing kind of way, which is just how Dutch likes it. Out of all of them, Johnny probably knows him best, with the exception of some of the working girls but they'd never kiss and tell. However, Dutch isn't thinking about them. He's standing nearby with a frown drawing in his wrinkled brow, eyes heavily shadowded but none the less trained on the act of brutality. There's a quiet, resigned kind of anger on his face--his gun is slung across his back, he _could_ do something about it, but that would mean getting in the shit with Vic, so just like everybody else... he just stands there and watches. 

Rooted to the spot, all Johnny can think about is what he would do if he could overpower them. He has an insane fantasy in his head of throwing himself on the back of one of these guys and wrestling the bat out of his hand, turning it on him and beating off the other six men. The other drifters would rise up, emboldened by his action-- they outnumber Vic's men five to one, at least. They'd save the man on the ground and nurse him back to health and... and then Vic would send more thugs after them and kill every fucking last one of them, this time with guns. 

It's hopeless. All they can do is stand there and watch until Vic's thugs get tired enough that they walk away, leaving behind a caved-in shell of something barely human behind on the ground, his blood spilling across the pavement. Johnny feels detached from his body. Silence falls in the street as everyone counts their limbs and prays to god in thanks that this time it wasn't them, but all Johnny can do is just stand there and stare at the pulp on the ground. 

"Did... anyone know his name?" he asks, glancing up at the other drifters. 

"What does his name fucking matter?" one of them snaps back, as if angered by the question, a man twice Johnny's age who's lived here twice as long. "He's dead and you're not, grow the fuck up."

"I just-- wondered if anyone knew his name," Johnny repeats numbly, his eyes falling back down to the dead man.

Dutch waits until Vic's thugs trail off like the pack of cowards they are, then he crosses over to where everyone is standing, gathered around the crumpled remains of the dead man on the pavement. Dutch's expression is unreadable as he looks down at the twisted wreck of limbs and broken teeth, but Johnny can hear his breath hitch for half a second, like even he, a pre-war ghoul, has been rattled a little bit by the display. Dutch has seen men die in similar ways before, but it never gets easier to watch. 

"His name was Danny," the ghoul finally says, his voice sitting up high in his nose in a nasally sneer, and his lip raises in a snarl toward the man who had reprimanded Johnny. "Maybe you oughtta have some fuckin' common decency and at least care about what a guy's name was so you can pay him the proper fuckin' respects when he gets killed." He says it with his chest, the others gathered around look away from Dutch and mutter things to themselves. He sounds _mad_. Mad at them, mad at himself, angry with Vic and his goons. "We should move him outta the street," he says, looking to his friend. "Don't you think, Johnny?" 

Johnny is shaken by Dutch's voice, he hadn't noticed him arrive. Or-- had he been there the whole time? Had Johnny been mistaken about him leaving town? No, he swears he remembers him saying he was going out to get Fluffy's favorite food since the trader would be in the area. But Johnny is mildly concussed, mildly traumatized, and way, way deep into a confused state of delirious dissociation. 

It hasn't gotten easier. Five fucking years of living here, and it hasn't gotten any easier. He got sort of numb to it after a while, learned how to hole up and ride out the storm until Vic's goons left, but even just a few months of being able to hide in Dutch's house in complete safety behind a locked door had really softened him up. Seeing it again, being this close, and having just shared a beer with the victim, looked into his human eyes and laughed at a story he told him about his first girlfriend. 

Shit, he can't start fucking _crying_ in the middle of the street, everyone will think he's a pussy. His eyes well up with tears but he doesn't let them fall. He reaches up to scrub his face to try and get the wires in his brain to reconnect, and he smears blood across his cheeks in the process. He doesn't know if it's his own blood, or if some of Danny's got on his hands while he was being-- jesus christ. _Beaten to death._

"Yeah," he says, his voice a pitiful tremble. "Uh-- yeah. We should get him-- into the sewer. Bet the ferals will appreciate the meal."

"Deserves some kind of fuckin' send off." Dutch grunts, and he bends over to lift Danny up. People look away as he gathers the man into his arms. His legs hang down in broken, jagged angles, head lulling to the side with mouth agape, his tongue spilling between broken teeth and that's when Dutch stops looking, both out of respect and because if he keeps looking at him, he's going to get a hair up his ass and hunt down Vic's guys, Vic himself be damned. He can't fuck up another living arrangement, not right now. And he hates that he has to be that selfish. Blood drips onto his clothes and his boots, and the rest of the crowd disperses. Dutch lets Johnny lead the way to the sewer, his jaw set in an angry way, his clenched teeth the only thing keeping him from cursing up a storm. 

When they get there, the manhole cover is lifted off, and sunlight spills into the sewers and Dutch, wishing he could give the guy a little gentleness in death, drops the body down into the sewer. As the manhole cover is locked back into place, they can hear the ferals creeping out of their hiding spots to pick the bones clean. Dutch steps away from the cover and puts a foot on it for good measure, just to make sure the heavy, metal locks are secure and when he's satisfied he takes a pack of crumpled cigarettes out of his back pocket and produces two. He keeps the one that's got blood smeared on it, and hands Johnny the other without a word. 

Johnny accepts the cigarette and puts it in his mouth, but he either doesn't notice the lighter being offered to him or he just doesn't have the energy to lift his hand to his face a second time. Luckily Dutch doesn't mind holding the lighter out for him, so all he has to do is numbly inhale to light the end of the paper on fire, and suck the comforting nicotine into his trembling body. He just stands there, listening to the sound of the ferals underfoot as they tear into the body, committing every grisly squelch to memory. 

"He was just telling me about a girl he knew," Johnny says, his voice coming out shaky as he stares unseeingly at the manhole cover, his cheek throbbing painfully as the bruise properly sets into the side of his face. "Like-- fifteen fucking minutes ago. How come a person can just-- be alive and then be fucking dead like that. It's not fucking fair."

Dutch catches himself chewing on the butt of his cigarette, stops himself before he gnarls it unusably and sighs. "I don't fuckin' know, man. I wish I did. _Fuck_ Vic. Fuck this fuckin' town, too." 

It's not like Johnny hasn't seen people die before, everyone has seen people die. But he's never been talking to someone one second casual as anything, learning about who they are as a person, and then just twenty minutes later stood over their body as it got ripped apart by ferals. 

"I don't even know what he said that set them off," he says, his voice still pathetically fucking shaking. "I, um-- fuck." he runs a hand through his hair, exhaling through his nose. "Is this stupid? I'm fucking stupid. I'm fucking crying over some-- some nobody. I didn't know him, I didn't know his name, why's this got me so fucked up?"

"C'mon John Boy, let's get away from this fuckin' sewer, huh? Can't be helpin'." Dutch takes him by the shoulder, and guides him away--far enough away that they can't hear the ferals going nuts down there anymore. They sit down on a busted out old bench with only three legs, and Dutch takes another draw from his cigarette. "It's hittin' you hard cuz it's not _right,_ " he continues, holding the smoke in his lungs with a strained voice. "What'd that guy do to them, huh? Nothin'. Vic and his goons are just a bunch of psychopaths, there's no rhyme or reason." He blows the smoke out through his nose and growls. "It's a scare tactic. He killed somebody to keep his stupid throne." 

Johnny doesn't want to live here anymore. But he can't live anywhere else, either. He can't go to Diamond City, and what is he supposed to do, live in a _settlement?_ He's not a fucking settler, he doesn't know how to farm or-- or do anything, really. He doesn't have any skills, he's just... he's nobody. Just like Danny was nobody, too. If he got his head beat in on the streets, would anyone care? Would _Dutch_ care? Or would he just dump his body into the sewer, too?

Nobody here cares. The people on the street don't fucking care, they're just glad it wasn't them. Johnny is struck by that old quote... something about coming for jews, and not speaking up cause you aren't a jew... or something, until they come for you, and nobody's left to speak for you. He doesn't remember the details, but he remembers how the quote made him _feel_ , the first time he read it. His chest feels hollow now, thinking about it. 

"He was a whole fucking person," he says, still feeling stupid, feeling angry and resigned and sad and scared and small. He feels fucking _small_. That's exactly how Vic wants him to feel, and it's fucking working. "He was born like a person and had parents, he grew up and survived this long, he had a girlfriend and a story and-- and all that fucking-- all the time he coulda had left--if I'd just fucking done something, if anyone _did something_ \-- if I just stepped in, if I fought for him--" he doubles over, bracing his face in his hands.

Dutch doesn't say anything. He lets him freak out and watches him do it too, for a long few minutes, just puffing on his cigarettes and thinking about the last time he'd talked to Danny. They'd had some beers, talked about women and what things might be like now if the bombs hadn't fallen. That's something Dutch thinks about a lot, where everyone would have ended up if things had turned out differently. He'd be fuckin' worm food by now, long since dead probably of old age or a drug overdose. 

"This is why I left the NCR." Dutch finally grunts. "Too many good fuckin' guys gettin' killed for shit reasons. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes."   
  
"I don't wanna think about this anymore," Johnny says, his breath coming in too quick, painful in his chest like knives. "I can't think about this anymore. I just-- I wanna get fucking high and forget the way he looked when they smashed his whole shit in. I still have a few caps from the last bounty I turned in-- I'm gonna buy whatever I can get my hands on and get the fuck out of this town for a while. I don't think-- I can't be here right now. You want in?"

Dutch breathes out the last of his smoke and crushes the butt of the cigarette under one combat boot, "Fluffy's got food for a good long while, I got my fixes. I'm in." 

"Great. Cool." Most of Johnny's cigarette had just turned to ash, so he spits it out and crushes it as well, jumping up to his feet and taking care not to look at the blood stain on the pavement as they pass by the spot Danny was killed just minutes ago. Johnny can still smell the stench of blood in the air, he can feel the sting and throb in his head where he was struck-- too many memories, he's got to snuff them out. He can't think about this, he can't think about it. 

Out through the gates of Goodneighbor, he trots immediately into raider territory where they know him by now as a regular, coming by to trade caps for chems, especially from a particularly twitchy man who goes by Rake, whose head is still doing its signature tic, his chin cocking out to the side every few seconds and his teeth chattering. 

"The usual?" Rake asks, teeth clicking, as he eyeballs Dutch up and down. One of his eyes appears to be glass, and is facing entirely the wrong direction. 

"Give me two of everything," Johnny says, well aware of how reckless he sounds, but Rake is all too happy to oblige as he opens his big fuckall cooler of chems, each type arranged surprisingly orderly for such a twitchy, weird man.

Dutch stands stalwart behind him, rifle in hands. He makes no move to do anything to poor Rake, he knows the guy in passing mostly through Johnny, it's not like they're all chummy pals. He has no reason of course, to be hostile toward him either. The gun's mostly for show, mostly for the raiders to stay off their backs. It's a mean looking sniper rifle, painted pink and green and neon yellow and is about as tall as Johnny himself is, especially with the huge bayonet attachment. 

If he has any reservations about what his friend is doing, Dutch doesn't voice them. Sure, a part of him tells him he should probably _not_ facilitate his next big binge, but Dutch isn't his keeper, and he's not about to go telling John-Boy what he's allowed to do after witnessing something like that. 

"I got something new," Rake says as caps and chems exchange hands. "Something you ain't never tried before, Johnny-- but the price ain't nothin."

"Something new?" Johnny looks at the haul he's already collected, sitting at the bottom of his messenger bag. Some psycho, med-x, mentats, hydra, rebound, even some turbo, day tripper, x-cell and steady for fun. He probably doesn't need anything else, but... "What is it?"

"It's called rad-z," Rake says, his hands twitching as he pulls out a second, smaller cooler. Even from inside an insulated cooler four feet away, Dutch can feel the familiar and pleasant hum-and-buzz of radiation seeping out from the container. "Radiation based, it'll make your veins fuckin' glow, man. Only a handful of hits made before the crazy bitch who made it ate dirt-- and I've got the last one right here. 250 caps."

250 is almost everything Johnny has left, but the promise of a new high he's never felt before, that's something he can't pass up, especially not now. He weighs his capbag, he'll have less than 20 left over... but at this point, he's not thinking with his head anymore. "Deal," he says, and hands his bag over for Rake to count, taking the cooler from his hands.

Dutch doesn't ask any questions. He has his own set of vices, and he knows better than to argue with Johnny's. Never has he floated the idea to him to quit, but maybe he should have. Sometimes there's a little voice in his head that tells him what a _good_ friend would do, but Dutch has been squashing that voice for years. The rad-drug does tip him off, but he can see Johnny's just buying up the guy's whole stock, and usually a little radiation doesn't do much to normal humans except give them a nasty headache and some upset stomach. Radaway usually takes care of it in a matter of minutes, the most that'll happen is Johnny has a bad trip--but there's always the possibility that he's bought it for Dutch. They're gonna tie one off together anyways. 

Johnny knows he doesn't want to be in Goodneighbor for this, so he thanks Rake for his stash and then with their pockets laden with chems, including the cooler still putting off that buzz of radiation, he leads the way in a random direction in the city, looking for somewhere secluded to relax for the night and get high and just forget the state of the world for a while. 

It's easy enough to find a place. He just starts bracing his foot against the boarded-up doors of places until one of them gives way a little bit under his foot, and with just a little more force applied, old nails give up the ghost and disconnect from the rotten wooden door frame, and the whole thing falls inward with a crackling sound. It's insurance enough that means they won't be disrupted by ghouls or raiders, who always leave homes alone when they're boarded up, preferring to stake out easier targets with working doors, and it also means nothing will already be inside to give them a nasty surprise. 

Once inside, Dutch is able to pick the nail-laden plywood back up and jam it back loosely into place to act as a facade, and Johnny turns on his maglight to illuminate the space. It's dusty, and there's an old skeleton curled up in a closet with no door, surrounded by antique jugs of water and a few valuables, as if they were expecting to wait out the apocalypse and make it out the other side rich. Fucking idiot. 

"It's clear," he calls from upstairs while Dutch inspects the cupboards and cabinets in the kitchen downstairs. "This asshole had a big fucking bed, it's still got sheets on and everything. Pretty sure these pillows have fucking feathers in them, man. Bet we could strip this house on the way out and sell everything in it for decent caps."

"Yeaaah, you're prolly right." Dutch drawls as he comes up the stairs with his weapon pointed down. It's dark in here, but he's gotten pretty good at seeing without seeing, given the state of his eyes. Breathing in dust is pretty much second nature now, so it doesn't bother him as he steps through a cloud of it and looks down at the bed where Johnny is already getting his shit set up. Fluffy leaps into a worn down old armchair in the corner next to a standing dresser. 

He leans his gun against the wall, with the safety off because he's not a fucking idiot and is aware that their sheer presence here could still be a danger if raiders decided to get curious about the light filtering out of the cracks of the boarded up windows, but he's not paranoid about it either. After setting his stuff down, Dutch takes a seat on the bed, surprised by how much spring it still has. 

"Not a bad place to hole up, I've been in worse." He mutters, looking over at his friend. "How ya doin' John-Boy? How's yer head?" 

"Don't worry about it," Johnny says as he unloads their haul on the mattress. By that, of course, he means that his head is fucking awful, because it is. He wouldn't have shilled out over 200 caps for a single hit of one drug if he was in a good head space. He can't stop hearing Danny's death rattle, can't stop seeing the way his face was all caved in, his eyes still hanging open and bloodshot, his teeth-- fuck, he has to stop, he's gotta _stop_. 

He pops open the lid of his favorite flavor of mentats-- berry. He likes the way they zing on his tongue and taste a little bitter and sour, and he pops two of them into his mouth, fitting the dark red tablets under his tongue where they'll dissolve and sink into his blood stream nice and quick. He wants to get as high as possible as quick as possible, to forget everything that happened this morning. He holds the tin out to Dutch, holding back the wax paper that surrounds the tablets to let him grab a couple, and he leans back against the pillows with a sigh. 

"These are really comfortable," he mutters, his voice a little muffled from the tablets under his tongue. "Maybe you should just keep these. Probably'd get fucking stolen, though..."

And he cycles right back to feeling depressed about the state of Goodneighbor, and the world beyond, so he grabs a tourniquet and a vial of med-x, just to double up. The mentats aren't working fast enough.

Dutch takes the tablets and lets them do their thing under his tounge. They don't really do much at first, Dutch's drug of choice has always been a little psycho mixed with day tripper just to take the edge off the high a little bit and mellow him out. Makes him feel like he can smell colors, and takes some of the pain of his gimp leg away. 

"Yeah, too many idiots in Goodneighbor willing to break in and steal a man's pillows." Dutch grunts, bending down to take something from his pack. He comes up with a snack cake, and a bottle of whiskey, which he uncorks once the tablets are dissolved, and takes a long pull, then hands it across to Johnny. 

Fluffy is settled in on the chair, guarding them. That's her job after all, and Dutch feels at least okay enough to relax for a bit on the bed with her on watch, her cataract-filmy eyes trained directly on them and her lips long since rotted off in a permanent toothy sneer. She still doesn't seem to like Johnny, she doesn't tolerate him petting her (not that he tries often, she has a stink and a residue) but she'll watch over him just as protectively as her ghoul when they're together. Dutch takes a bite of one of the cakes and sighs, his vision starting to go a little fuzzy around the edges in a way that makes his head feel light and airy. 

Johnny chases the tablets down with more than a few slugs of whiskey, only coming up for air once he's panting, and satisfied that the tourniquet has done its job of his arm making the vein bulge in his elbow, he swiftly injects himself with an entire dose of med-x. He knows Dutch can see how reckless he's being, and appreciates him for not lecturing him or anything. He's so fucking used to older people lecturing him about how to live his life, as if his life fucking means anything in this post-apocalyptic hellscape-- 

The morphine works immediately, and he sighs as his mind finally slows down and starts to spin pleasantly around the room. He doesn't have the brain power to think about anything anymore, thank god, and he just luxuriates in the whimsical feeling of floaty-headedness and total muscle stillness. He's a little wobbly as he reaches up to remove the tourniquet, and he lets his head lull to the side to land on Dutch's shoulder. 

"The only thing in this world that's worth a fucking... shitting damn is you," he mutters, flexing his toes in his boots just to feel the way they creak against the leather. "You're fucking... something else, man. Everything else can burn."

"Yeah John-Boy, feeling's mutual," he replies, chewing his food slowly. Probably not a good idea to eat before taking a hit of day tripper, which is what he's readying to do on top of liquor and the mentats that Johnny had given him, but he's gotten well practiced in not choking on his own vomit. After taking a hit and lying back down, Dutch's pinky touches Johnny's as a blissed out wave of dizzy happiness fogs up his brain and he laughs like an idiot."You and me should get out of Goodneighbor sometime, just....go. There's so much more out there than this place and its... shitheels. I'll take ya to New Vegas sometime, Johnny.....you'll really live it up." 

"That's the other side of the country, asshole," Johnny gives a stupid, drunken giggle as he stares up at the ceiling, feeling disconnected from his own body. "Unless you got a fuckin... car... what are we gonna do, walk all that way? You came on a fucking... airship. Maybe we can jack one to head back, too. Go kick trouble up the Brotherhood's ass. They don't have fucking-- nine thousand guns, or anything, I bet we could take 'em with Fluffy and a fucking... amazing high."

"I got a motorcycle dumbass," Dutch laughs, his head lulling to the side to look at Johnny. There's a fuzzy part of his brain that recognizes his friend looks happy, and that makes _him_ happy on a very primitive level. "Fluffy can take anybody. She's torn supermutants apart like tissue paper." 

"Dutch," Johnny rolls up onto his side to face the other man, tucking his arm under his head against the pillow. He looks up at him with those big blue eyes the color of the fucking sky, his freckled cheeks all flushed with endorphins and liquor-- he looks like a goddamn angel. Nobody should be allowed to be this pretty in the commonwealth, this untouched, this fucking _soft_ in the face. Maybe it's because Johnny actually cares enough to scrub the dirt off his face-- maybe other people would look prettier if they did, too. Magnolia's sure a fucking sight, and she keeps clean, too. Or maybe it's just because of those big eyes and full lips and the curls the color of stingwing honey that sit on his ears. 

"Dutch," he says again, like the ghoul didn't hear him even though he's looking right at him, and he reaches out to put a hand on his chest. "You can't just say that cause you're high, man... if you say it you gotta _mean it_. You gotta take me outta this place someday, promise me. _Promise_."

The ghoul's tongue flickers out to wet his lips, and he lifts a heavy hand to touch Johnny's chin, "I'll take you away from here one day, John-Boy..when you're ready. I seen all over, and there's peaceful, quiet places outside of Boston. You deserve a quiet place, Kid." 

Johnny immediately sits up, emboldened by the touch to his face, the way Dutch licked his lips, and in no small part the drugs in his system, and he leans in to press his lips to Dutch's. He's never been squeamish about the fact that Dutch is a ghoul, never seemed shy or squicked or even remotely disgusted. There are people out there who have ghoul fetishes, but even those people as a general rule don't _kiss_ ghouls. There's the risk of smelling, or much worse _tasting_ necrosis or rot when putting your face anywhere near a ghoul-- but Johnny doesn't seem to care. Maybe it's because Dutch is one of the less fucked-up variety, or maybe it's just cause he's a horny kid-- but he leans into it, bracing his hand on Dutch's shoulder with a wild flutter of his heart.

Dutch grunts in his throat, and lazily loops his arm around Johnny's waist. He doesn't push him off, but accepts the kiss by tilting his head into it, breathing softly through his nose. The gentle, mellowing effects of Day-Tripper are making every sense feeling in his body feel more intense and slow, it feels like he can feel every square inch of Johnny's body against him as they press into one another, and Dutch curls his fingers into his friend's belt. 

Johnny swings a leg over Dutch's lap to sit on him chest to chest, already panting through his nose. He's desperate, but not in just the usual dumb kid way that he's been with Dutch in the past. He's desperate to feel something, to feel _alive_ , to chase away the heavy grey cloud hanging over him about Danny. He wants to forget completely, he wants Dutch to put him in that place he has a few times before where he's so fucked-out he can't even think. He wants Dutch to turn him inside out until there's no room inside him anymore for the memory of how Danny died. 

"Just fuck me up," he pants against Dutch's mouth as he slings one arm around his shoulders and cups his cheek with his other hand, rubbing his thumb across a solid patch of scar tissue right over Dutch's cheekbone, avoiding the more open sores on the corner of his jaw. He doesn't know if they hurt, but if they do, he doesn't want to cause the man any pain.

Dutch's sluggish brain vaguely registers what Johnny's saying to him. He knows he's on top of him now, and the weight feels good. He's asking For It, and Dutch wants to give it to him--he _needs to_ give it to him. Not only because he wants it, but he knows Johnny needs it. 

"Pants off, dipshit." He grunts, biting Johnny's shoulder. The cocktail of drugs Dutch had taken has made him sluggish, he pushes Johnny off and forces him onto his back, and after swinging his thigh over to sit on him, he leans over and grabs a vial of hydra from Johnny's stash and takes a hit by downing it with a gulp. Tastes like shit, but it'll get his blood pumping--probably not great on top of the downers he took, but Dutch has taken worse combinations and been fine. He's used to skirting that line. 

With that swigged, and his body starting to wake up, he watches Johnny shimmy out of his pants clumsily, and practically tears them the rest of the way off of him, and when the kid moves again, Dutch shoves him back with one big hand splayed over his chest. 

"You want me to fuck you, Johnny? Good, cause I wanna fuck you." Clumsy dirty talk at best. "Stay there, I gotta get the lube." 

Which means he'd _packed_ the lube. Maybe it had been for his own personal use, or maybe he'd been planning on fucking Johnny all along. Either way he comes back with the bottle, and no shirt, and lays down beside his friend. He's so tall his feet would hang off the bed if he were lying flat on his back, but he's got his knees bent, on his side facing Johnny. The kid hadn't been wearing undergarments, who has time for underwear in the apocalypse anyways? 

Squirting out a bit of lube on his fingers, Dutch gets them nice and wet and plants them between Johnny's legs. He doesn't take his time getting acquainted with his hole, he just presses his long fingers in, in such a way that it stings and certainly makes Johnny feel _something_ other than the gray fog in his head. It burns right up his belly as Dutch starts to twist his fingers into him, scissoring him open with a practiced hand. 

Johnny immediately chokes back a sound in his throat, his head snapping back against the mattress, and his hips popping up off the sheets as they move to grind down and meet Dutch's hand. It's not often that he actually has the opportunity to have fully pants-off sex, especially with Dutch. Usually it's a mouthful of spit to the hole and a few rough fingers before they fuck like rad-dogs over a washing machine out in the wilds of the city. Maybe it's like that this time, too, and it just feels different because of the drugs making him stupid and limp. 

"Oh shit--" he groans, his heels grinding into the bed as pleasure makes his body feel heavy. He can't remember if they've ever had sex facing one another like this. Granted, they've only had sex a half dozen times or so over the past few months. Dutch is an old ghoul and Johnny has been afraid to push his luck anyway, but he can't remember if they've ever actually done it like this before. 

His cock fills out quickly, standing up after a few heavy pulses of blood, visibly jumping and twitching as it swells up and turns bright red. Dutch's fingers are fucking _long_ , bony where they probe inside him, and it makes him shake as they effortlessly tag his prostate. His hole flexes and squeezes around them, and his toes curl in the sheets as he arches up into the touch with a keen in his throat that he doesn't even have the faculties to be embarrassed about. 

"Fuck-- fuckfuck _fuck_ holy _shit_ \--" Johnny's thighs shake, the pleasure sinking into his lethargic muscles and making them twitch like he's being shocked by a cattle prod every time Dutch's fingers sink all the way home inside him and bully their way right past his sweet spot. "Dutch, you gotta-- you-- fucking-- asshole-- oh my god--"

"Yeah that's right, say my name like a fuckin' bitch. You fuckin'....bitch." Dutch grunts stupidly, he hopes it sounds as cool as he thinks it does. It doesn't. He's grinding his fingers in, past Johnny's prostate and sometimes right on it, twisting like he's trying to corkscrew a hole through his stomach. It's enough that his arm is pumping at a speed that definitely _shouldn't_ be the starting line, but Dutch has never done anything slow. 

And maybe he _is_ doing it special now to make Johnny feel something more. There are times when Dutch would like to be tender with him, and there have been times when he _has_ been. Mostly when they're drinking and talking life outside of Boston. Sometimes there's something soft in the way Dutch talks about past lovers, or his old NCR buddies. There's a gentleness to Dutch when he's cooking, and telling stories. Johnny knows it's there, but he's never witnessed it like this before. 

Not that Dutch is being _gentle_ but he's giving him more care than he has in the past. Working him up into a frenzy, instead of starting at frenzy and ending with burnout. He's never fingered him long enough to make a noticeable difference, and even if he's jacksawing into him right now, it's more than he's given him in the past. Dutch knows that, he just hopes John-Boy's smart enough not to bring it up later. 

It's gotta be the drugs, Johnny tells himself, but he's had sex while high before. He's even had sex while high with Dutch one other time-- and it doesn't account for this. This... feeling. More than the physical feeling, Johnny feels warm in his heart, as gay as that is. He feels like Dutch gives a shit about him, about whether he lives or dies. He wouldn't end up like Danny as long as he has Dutch on his side-- 

Oh, fuck, he can't think about Danny again. His head thrashes from side to side as he tries to clear it, and Dutch's fingers hit his prostate again, sandblasting the thoughts from his brain just like he knew the ghoul could do. He fists the sheets in one hand, and claps his other hand over his mouth to keep from making too much noise. They're on the second floor, sure, but he still doesn't want to risk attracting raiders or super mutants or wild dogs or any of the other horrible things that live in this place-- 

Stop it, _stop thinking about it._ He gives a wretched sob in his nose as he tries and fails again to clear his head, and Dutch's fingers tag his prostate again mercilessly. He uncovers his mouth to gasp out a ragged "Don't stop," and pats the bed beside him until he finds what he's looking for-- a bottle of steady, and his lighter. With his hands shaking thanks to the plunder of the ghoul's fingers inside him, Johnny finally manages to get the lighter lit and ignites the foil starter in the neck of the bottle until he hears the contents inside start to boil, and he uncovers the hose with his thumb to inhale the vapors and hold it in his lungs. 

Instantly, his mind slows way the fuck down. His racing thoughts mellow out until he can't think at all anymore, and nothing matters to him but the rush of Dutch's fingers inside him. He exhales the vapors in a misty, brownish smoke and groans through his nose, relaxed once more from the frantic anxiety that had been climbing. He even takes a second hit, for good measure.

"Yeah, get good and fucked up, John-Boy. Let all your troubles melt away." Dutch's voice and face swim around Johnny like the reflections in a pond. When he's had his hit, Dutch carefully takes the bottle away from him, and lays it and the lighter out of the way. More tenderness that need not be given, but it is anyways and Dutch says nothing of it. 

His fingers rake up into Johnny, sawing him in a half until he's slick and open, and the scissoring of his fingers is made soft and smooth. It'd be easier to think Dutch did that work for himself--it'd be a better fuck to drive into something sopping wet and loose. At least the Steady makes his mind melt too much to care. 

In a second, Dutch is on him. His combat fatigues are off, boots gone, tank top shed. Only his NCR dogtags glint icily on his collarbone as he shifts to be on top of Johnny, who can hear the springs in his false leg creaking. Dutch urges his legs apart, and up around his hips as he covers Johnny's body with his. It's an intimate moment as he gets into position over him, their skinny bellies brushing against one another, Dutch's cock bobbing against him for just a moment, his belly button is kissed by the cool metal of his cockring. 

"Alright Johnny..." Dutch says, there's no more to that thought. He slides in with a breathless sigh that leaves his nose with a little squeak. His cock drives in all the way to the hilt, and he's suddenly chest to chest with Johnny, his chin against the pillow, then rocking over him and thrusting inside. Dutch isn't the biggest guy Johnny's ever taken, but it gets the job done. 

"Ffffuuck--" Johnny throws his arm over Dutch's shoulders, panting against his neck as he's properly speared open. It feels like so much with the drugs all flooding his system. The mentats make his senses sharp while the morphine makes his body heavy, and the steady makes him lazy and soft. He's every kind of tender there is, and it would be so easy to take advantage of him right now-- but Dutch is careful with him, even as he sets into a steady pace on top of him. 

He feels full up to his teeth, stretched open wide and easily claimed. He bounces on the bed under Dutch, gasping every time he strikes all the way home inside him, every time their skin claps together. He feels too hot, the drugs making his body respond in strange ways, and a sweat spot forms dark on the front of his tank top as he clings to the ghoul with both hands, his head pressed back into the mattress. 

"Oh shit-- oh my god-- oh fuck that's-- fuck, yeah, yeah Dutch yeah fucking-- give it to me--" he grits out through clenched teeth, as if Dutch isn't already doing exactly that. As if Dutch isn't already making him feel it all the way up the back of his neck, as if he isn't already fucking gagging on it. His nails dig into Dutch's skin, any thoughts of hurting him long gone. Now all he wants is to goad Dutch into fucking him so hard it'll hurt after he comes down.

Dutch's piercing drags heavily inside of him, and it feels so incredibly good sliding over his prostate. Like a little toy, made specifically for him, it fits like a key into that spot with every thrust. It's like Dutch has radar for it, his lengthy cock burrows in to destroy him, and every time Johnny feels like he's transcending time and space. 

"Yeah-yeah take it all, fucker," Dutch grits, grinding in deep and he stays there, just rotating his hips into Johnny, forcing the tip of his cock and accompanying piercing right against his prostate--and he just grinds it in, making him feel every inch until it feels like he can't get a breath, then Dutch goes back to fucking him at the previous clip. 

He likes watching Johnny fall to pieces. He always has, but this time feels different in a way Dutch won't want to look at later. Hell, he doesn't even want to look at it _now_. He doesn't want to analyze _why_ he wants to make Johnny feel good--it's nothing more than friendship, and that's what it has to be for Dutch. A good layer of removal away from anything fucking romantic, as if he's even capable of that kind of love, or capable of _being_ loved in that way, either. 

"Oh shit-- oh shit oh shitohshit--" Johnny's voice lifts into a pathetic little squeak as the pleasure peaks inside him, reaching its apex and crashing over him like a toppled tower, and he cums utterly untouched between their stomachs. He releases in several long strings, painting his belly in stripes as Dutch just keeps driving into him, stretching his pleasure out until it aches and burns with oversensitivity. 

But even that feels good. The burn reminds him that he's fucking alive, that he's got nerve endings and a beating heart and a working body, unlike-- 

No, no no no no no-- tears fill his eyes, partially in grief, partially in pleasure, though it's impossible to tell the difference as he's currently being railed. Despite his orgasm he continues to take it like a champ, focusing on the feeling, focusing on the way Dutch feels inside him, heavy and hot and rough like sandpaper now in his oversensitive state. He narrows down his thoughts to just the way Dutch's piercing strikes home inside him like a chiming bell, and a soft, breathy string of moans leave him with every thrust, a quiet _uh-- uh-- uh-- uh--_ that fills the otherwise quiet bedroom between the squeaking of the bed springs.

Dutch pulls out, and he twists Johnny at the waist so his ass is pointing in the air, knee bent over the other, and he slides in again from behind, with Johnny still twisted up like a pretzel. He does not have the biggest prick, but the new angle does make him slide in deeper. Dutch is practically planking on top of him now, his knees digging into the bed and he fucks him at a more frantic clip than before as he draws nearer his own climax. 

"Fuck--fuck--fuck!" He growls, tossing his head back with a wild expression he looks down at Johnny, his face twisted up in a snarl that shows off his pointed teeth. "Take it you... fucking shit." 

And Johnny does.Their skin slaps together loudly in the quiet room. Dutch's nails dig into his skin. It's easier for Johnny to twist over fully onto his side, to let Dutch fuck him from behind, as Dutch gets closer he gets up on his knees and pounds into Johnny with quick, uneven strokes--then he cums and grits low in his throat, an animalistic noise despite Dutch's usual nasally tone. He spills into Johnny, and leaves him a mess on the inside, and when he's spent he slouches over him, panting hard and looking for the whiskey. 

Johnny is left lying there, numb and satisfied for a few minutes as Dutch pulls himself back together, his head blissfully empty of thoughts now that he's properly, well and truly fucked out. He gives a drunken-sounding giggle and rubs his face against the dirty sheets, smiling to himself. Dutch always manages to make him feel like a properly fucked-to-pieces sex toy by the time he's done with him, a feeling he _thought_ he got before from other guys-- but in hindsight, nobody really gives it to him like Dutch. 

"Fucking... excellent," he croaks, his voice hoarse and sticky with pleasure. His head lolls to the side to look at Dutch with a delirious sort of smile, his face still flushed and brow shiny with sweat.

Whiskey drips over Dutch's chin as he lays back on the bed and takes a swig. His head is feeling properly swimmy now with three different drugs coursing through is veins, every heartbeat feels like it lifts him off the bed. After taking another couple of pulls from the whiskey bottle, he thunks it down on the bedside table and looks at Johnny, "Fag."

"Fag," Johnny shoots right back with a tired laugh, still smiling. This is what he wanted, this weightless and thoughtless fog of nonfeeling sensation. He wanted this numbness, this comfort, and so he sinks into it without remorse, drifitng off to sleep. He has no doubts that Dutch will watch over him while he takes a nap, comforted by his presence.

Unfortunately, it doesn't last. As soon as he's deep enough asleep to dream, the nightmares start. He sees Danny, the way he looked when they were done with him, head broken in and mashed to pieces, trying and failing to speak to him past a swollen tongue and broken teeth that fall out of his face as he chokes on his words, and still Johnny knows he's begging him to know why he didn't save him. He sees what it was like from Danny's perspective, being the one on the ground with Vic's goons beating him to death-- and then he sees what it was like from their perspective, wailing on Danny himself. 

By the time he wakes up, it's only been a couple hours-- the drugs aren't completely out of his system and he's delirious and half asleep, so when Dutch glances up at him, he sees Danny's face again, all smashed in, and he yelps, falling sideways off the bed. Panic has gripped him completely, as he scrambles to pull on his pants and boots, his hands shaking and his breath coming in short, hyperventilating panting. 

"Gotta breathe, gotta breathe, gotta breathe," he repeats in a shaken whisper, sweat collecting on his brow and in the hollow of his collarbone.

"What the hell, man?" Dutch whines, sitting up on the bed. Most of the drugs have worn off for him, being a ghoul and a practiced druggie, it'll take more than one hit of something to do him in. He scrambles to the edge of the bed and watches Johnny, falling apart on the floor with a terrified look of surprise on his face. He looks stupid, that's Dutch's first thought. A shitty one at that, and he swipes it away. "The fuck is wrong with you, John-Boy?" He frowns down at him, the half-light of the room casting eerie shadows on his ghoulish face. The deep, old wounds along his jaw and under his eye are drawn into frightening relief, deeply shadowed in the dim light. 

Johnny yelps and flinches away from Dutch for a moment as the wounds on his face twist and confuse him for a second, before he remembers he's hanging out with a ghoul-- a ghoul he lov-- no, a ghoul he thinks is Neat. He can't lose his head now, Dutch will make fun of him forever. 

"Nothing, man!" he says, his tone much too forced, and too loud. "I'm just-- fucking tweaking out, man, I just need to-- need another hit, I'm just having a weird-- I'll be fine."

He reaches for the first needle he sees, mistaking it for med-x in his haze and panic, hoping for another dose of one of his favorites, something that would immediately mellow him out. Unfortunately, instead he grabbed rebound, and as soon as he unloads the syringe into his arm, it hits him in seconds. Dutch slows down, his voice going deeper, and even Fluffy's concerned whining in the corner is pitched down. Johnny's entire body seizes up as he realizes he'd given himself the wrong fucking drug, and now the world around him is stuck in slow motion for however fucking long it takes for this to wear off. 

Panic lurches into his chest deeper, and he quickly tries to counteract the time-slowing effect by grabbing an inhaler full of x-cell, something he knows has given him a speedy high in the past-- but when he takes a deep puff of that, instead of reversing the strange effect, it just worsens it. There are strange light-relief outlines of both Dutch and Fluffy as they move, reflections of where they were seconds ago as they try to move to comfort the panicking boy, but the effect just scares him worse. 

Scrambling to his feet, Johnny finishes jamming his boots on and shrugs on his coat, his hands shaking and his words babbling out of him so fast he isn't even aware of what he's mumbling. He needs to get out, he needs fresh air, he needs to see the fucking sky and remember he's alive, he can still feel the fucking bats coming down on his face from his dream where he switched places with Danny--

Whatever Dutch says is lost in the whirlwind of colors, sounds, and lights that are throbbing all around Johnny's head like a fucked up halo. The ghost sensation of the bats don't hurt as bad as they should, but they slam all over his body from unseen assailants and inhibit his ability to push out of the door. The world is moving in slow motion, and he's moving faster, the drugs giving him a tweaked out kind of super speed that makes him so quick that to Dutch, it seems like he's been dipped in slick oil, because Johnny keeps slipping right out of his grasp on the way down the stairs. 

_He's lucky I'm here, this dumb sonuvabitch._ Dutch thinks as he tears after him. Fluffy runs ahead, her barking warbling and distorted by Johnny's drugged out brain until she sounds like a supermutant hot on his heels, shouting something he doesn't understand and that quickly turns to a paranoia that she might be just that. 

Dutch manages to grab Johnny's coat before he gets to the door, and he wrestles with him. Johnny might have a knife on him, and Dutch knows it. He'll need to get the upper hand, and fast if he wants to subdue him for his own damn good-- he can't afford to go streaking out onto the streets of the commonwealth while he's this fucked up. He'll get picked off by Raiders, taken hostage or done worse to than that by supermutants, who will tear him limb from limb and eat the bones for good measure. 

Johnny immediately puts up a fight, but he isn't exactly a killer. Twinky and scrawny even compared to Dutch's lithe frame, all he can really do is twist like a snake on the spot-- but twist he does. Impotent with the drugs in his systems, his hands are ineffective paddles that slap and push at Dutch-- and it doesn't take more than a few seconds for Dutch to realize that he's not fighting, he's _terrified_. Sobbing and fighting just to breathe, still moving unnaturally fast in Dutch's arms, he's begging incoherently. 

Begging not to be hurt, apologizing for giving up, for freezing up-- it's clear that he's right back there again, back on the streets of Goodneighbor watching Danny get broken to pieces by Vic's men. He's reliving it over and over, the same way he has been since it happened hours ago. He can't get it out of his head-- or maybe he can't get his head out of the event. The nightmares and drugs definitely aren't helping.

"Stop," Dutch says firmly. "Stop it, you fuckin' jackrabbit." He grabs Johnny by the two flaps of his coat and wraps the damn thing around him. It's not big enough to be a blanket, being the thin material it is and not very long to boot, but it does the job to restrain him until Dutch can get his arms around him fully. Despite being skinny himself, the ghoul has a lot of strength in his frame, so he's able to squeeze Johnny hard enough to get him to slow down and stop fighting as much, mostly because the air is being squeezed out of him. "Stop," Dutch says again. "Stop and listen to me, John-Boy. It's your ol' pal Dutchie. You're safe. Stop freakin' out, man. You're gonna pull somethin'." 

Johnny can't understand what Dutch is saying to him for the most part, his speech is pitched down and slurred, but the word 'Dutch' is unmistakeable, and it gets him to slow down enough to tip his head back and get a view of the ghoul, and remind himself where he is. Ground himself in the present again. He's in an old house with Dutch. They came here to get high. He's just having a bad trip. 

But god, what a bad trip it is. Rebound is luckily as swift through the system as it is potent, and he can feel the worst of the effects starting to seep out the back of his mind, leaving him exhausted and trembling and sweating in Dutch's arms. 

"I can't do it-- I can't do it, I can't-- I can't--" he wheezes out exhausted sobs, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. "I can't, I can't, I can't..."

"You don't got to do anything right now, but rest." Dutch is soft with him, it feels okay to be soft right now--he'll have to analyze that later, when John-Boy is properly passed out. "I'm gonna pick you up, Kid. Don't freak out on me." 

He lifts him up and holds him easily against his chest. Johnny's considerably shorter than Dutch, and although he's muscular in a slim and pretty way it doesn't seem to be a struggle for the ghoul to lift him into his arms and carry him up the stairs. Fluffy's behind them, groufing with worry or maybe she's just making stupid dog noises. Either way, the three of them ascend the stairs. 

Once they're back in the bedroom, Dutch lays Johnny back down on the bed, and this time he doubles back to the door to lock it, for good measure. He bolts it with a chair against the doorknob, which will be harder for Johnny to figure out if he's tripping, and it'll give Dutch time to get ot him, if he loses it again. 

After that's done, Dutch turns on the camping lantern he'd brought with them, and sets it on the bedside table, then lays down beside Johnny. His scent is familiar, heavy with cigarette smoke, gunmetal and some kind of fruity smell that Johnny's never been quite able to pin down. 

He splays his fingers over Johnny's stomach and mutters, "You were thinkin' about Danny again, weren't you Kid? You gotta stop." 

"I can't stop," Johnny gasps, hyperventilating frantically between his words, sobbing against the pillows while his whole body trembles feverishly. "I can't stop-- seeing him-- he was right there-- I was right there-- I can't stop-- it won't stop-- make it _stop_ \--"

His stomach won't stop turning nauseously as the scene replays in his head again and again-- this time from fresh angles, both as Danny's assailants, and the dead man himself. He doesn't know why this one is sticking with him so hard--he's seen people die before. He's killed people to survive before-- everyone has. But this one is really stuck in his head, and won't leave him alone. Maybe it was because he stood there and watched everyone else standing there and watching, too. Maybe it's the fact that the situation really put into sharp relief how very alone everyone is against the world. Nobody would step in to save a poor soul being kicked to death on the ground, not a single person. Not even he himself.

"You've got to be strong, Johnny," Dutch grunts, getting up. He leans over his friend's body and grabs something from below, and when he comes up again he's got a syringe between his teeth, and the band to tie around Johnny's arm. He makes a tight seal with it and lets himself sink down on Johnny's lap. Once the vein's popped up, he takes the syringe out of his mouth and finds it with the needle, and in short order, Johnny's getting a large, mellowing hit of Med-X. 

"Shh--shh..." Dutch coos when his friend groans, he presses the plunger all the way down until the drug's pushed entirely into his vein, then waits a second before pulling it out and pressing down on the spot of blood that dribbles out of him. Must be nice to have elastic skin like that, still. "Relax, John-Boy...relax. You're here, with me and Fluffy. None of Vic's guys are coming for you, and all you got to do now is put those troubles out of your mind. Just try to focus on feelin' good, alright? You know how to feel good." 

The weight of Dutch in his lap is comforting, but the morphine even moreso. He already has so many drugs in his system that he swears he can feel his heart pounding out of his chest, but even that is comforting in a way. It reminds him he's alive. Tears still leak from his eyes, and flat on his back like this they just pool in his ears. He flexes his arm to feel the touniquet press into his skin, and then finally reaches up to hold Dutch's waist, just to feel the pressure of his body underneath his palms. 

He _does_ know how to feel good, and the morphine does help calm him down, but it makes him no less delirious or pained. His pain comes from inside his chest, so no amount of painkillers seem to be helping, and he lets out another pitiful wheeze. 

"I'm so-- fucking _angry_ , Dutch," his voice comes out in a pathetic whimper, fresh tears spilling from his eyes. "I hate this world so fucking much-- I hate living on the street, I hate having no family-- I hate Vic-- god I fucking _hate Vic_ \--" his voice breaks on another sob, his fingers digging into Dutch's hips, just to hold him.

"Good, be angry," Dutch grunts, adjusting his position in Johnny's lap. He's not the heaviest person, but the weight of him does remind Johnny that he's present. Leaning over he finally unties the tourniquet and tosses it onto the floor. "Vic thinks he's tough cuz he's got guys, but his guys are cowards. All it'd take is one, calculated assault to clear 'em out and Vic would be paste. I seen guys like him before--out in the Mojave they wouldn't last ten minutes. Hell they wouldn't last in the commonwealth if it wasn't for sheer fuckin' luck. One of these days they're gonna get run through by Supermutants, or get too much attention from the fuckin' Brotherhood." 

One calculated assault, huh? Maybe it's the drugs-- or maybe it's the effects of everything that's happened in the last few hours combined, trauma included. But Dutch's words light a fire in his veins. 

"You and me," he says, hands clutching around Dutch's hips. "We worked well together the last few times-- made out like kings-- what if we took on Vic? He's got guns, but his goons-- they've all just got bats and clubs and shit. We could take them. I go up front to get their attention and you pick them off from the shadows."

"You're high. Johnny." Dutch puts his hands on his shoulders. "You're high." 

"No, come on-- I mean, yeah, I am, but-- fuck, no, listen to me," Johnny wedges an elbow under him so he can push up, leaning up on it while still holding Dutch by the waist with his other hand. "We could fucking do it. You're kickass, and I'm really loud, I'd be a great distraction. Kite them in the streets while you pop their heads off like dandelions. I'm serious, those people are-- are fucking scum, Dutch, they don't _deserve_ to even live, much less run a town fulla people. Nobody in Goodneighbor deserves their shit, fucking nobody."

Dutch wants to rebuke him again, but he flashes back to the look on Johnny's face, moments ago when they'd been downstairs and he tried to flee outside, into the danger-infested streets, just to get away from the terror haunting him from Danny's death--and that's when Dutch realizes Johnny _needs_ this. He needs it to get peace of mind, and clarity, and to avenge Danny's death. 

With a fixed look, Dutch nods. "We'll get 'em. You and me." 

Johnny's whole face lights up when Dutch agrees, and even though his hands are shaking, he scoots a bit to sit up properly, his head swimming. "Yeah? You mean it? Fuck it, let's do this-- the whole world would be a better place without fucking _Vic_." 

He nudges Dutch off his lap and starts packing up their haul, because even while high Johnny knows better than to leave junk he paid for out and about where Raiders could get to it. His body is buzzing with a strange mix of adrenaline, glee, dread and a whole shit load of drugs that are making him both wired and mellow at the same time, just enough so that he can keep his head clear as he lays his bag across his shoulder again and makes his way downstairs. 

He's never felt such clarity in his life, actually. His head is singularly focused on the goal of killing Vic. He's never outright murdered someone before-- sure, he's shot raiders dead a handful of times just to save his own skin, but that isn't _murder_ , it's calculated self defense. It's no different from shooting wild bloatflies or feral ghouls-- they're just animals, at that point. But Vic is a guy, someone he knows, someone he's even spoken to on a couple of occasions-- and he's going to straight up kill the guy. And he already feels like a fucking hero just thinking about it.

There's a purpose to the way Dutch gets dressed. He tugs on his bomber jacket, and laces up his combat boots--NCR issue, old things are still getting some good use yet. His old bandana he ties around his face, flips his goggles down and ties his thin white hair back, then whistles for Fluffy to follow. 

The last to be gathered up is his rifle. She's seen a lot over the years, killed a lot, dispensed wasteland justice and fucked over more raiders than he could count. Now, she's going to fuck over Vic and his guys too, and Dutch thinks that's just perfect--for Vic to be added to that nameless lot, downed by a ghoul's rifle and laying in a pool of his own blood seems fitting for Vic, even if it also feels too good for him, too. 

They get packed up finally, and tie another hit on. It's courage at this point, Dutch might have purpose in him to do this, but he still knows it's a fuckin fools errand to try and kill Vic. At best they might get run out of Goodneighbor, at worst? They could end up like Danny, getting their eyes slurped out by feral ghouls, but Dutch is willing to give it a shot. 

Getting back to Goodneighbor while high as a fucking kite isn't easy, and Johnny can't even rely on Dutch's advanced tactical knowledge of the area because it's pitch dark and the old motherfucker is night blind. They get turned around a few times, and duck into a few alleyways where Johnny insists on giggling feel-ups and biting kisses, his whole body buzzing with adrenaline and desperate to work some of it out of his system before he vibrates his own skin off. 

When they finally make it back to the town in question, Johnny ducks outside the gate and gestures for Dutch to follow him, sitting down with his back to the wall so Vic's patrols can't catch a glimpse of them. "Okay, I'll go in first," he whispers. "Don't have your gun out, so nobody gets suspicious. I'll sneak into the Old State House and hide, and wait for you to fire off a shot, just shoot the sky or something to let me know you're in a good position outside to shoot Vic's guys. Then I'll get their attention and bring them outside, and we'll knock them off together. Once that's done, we'll go up to wherever Vic's gonna be fucking cowering, and take him out too. I wanna get that last blow though, okay? I really just-- I need him to know it was me."

"You got it." Dutch is agreeable when he bends down and pecks Johnny playfully on the ear. His gun is slung high over his back, the barrel of the thing easily as long as Johnny's torso, but it somehow manages to look normal on Dutch's frame. He takes his friend in, and looks as if he wants to say something, but instead Dutch just nods. "You go, I'll get into position. Keep your nerves in check, John-Boy. If your nerves go, that's the end of it." 

They go their separate ways. Johnny heading into Vic's territory to find his bat-wielding lunatics, and Dutch gets into position on the highest floor of a neighboring building that's been in disuse for awhile, home only to a few ghouls who inhabit the place--they don't ask any questions when Dutch climbs the stairs, either they know better, or they just don't care. He blends in, anyways. He waits a while, and settles in with his rifle. It's quiet in Goodneighbor right now, Dutch thinks, and soon it'll be alive with gunfire and shouting--he hopes Johnny's legs work good enough to get him out of there when the time comes, because no amount of bullets from Dutch's gun can help him with that. 

Satisfied with his position, Dutch raises his rifle to point into the overcast sky, and he takes a shot at the air. His bullet disappears into the wild blue yonder, but he could care less about that. The sound is what he's after, to signal to John-Boy that he's ready and willing. 

A lot of ears hear that gunshot. There's disquiet on the streets, confusion and fear over the sound of a gun going off somewhere in town. Eyes turn to the sky and feet hit the ground as people take cover, anticipating a firefight-- and Dutch knows that fear is justified. However, the only pair of ears that matters, the only pair of ears who needed to hear that gunshot, don't hear it at all. 

Johnny can't hear anything except the roaring of his own heartbeat in his ears. He'd emptied nearly an entire canister of turbo into his lungs to give him an edge as he waited for Dutch's shot, but he'd very quickly noticed something about the ground floor as he huddled in a corner in wait-- nobody was fucking there. He went from room to room, and sure enough the place was completely empty. So he took the stairs up to the second floor-- and found nobody there, either. 

He searched the third floor to boot and found it similarly deserted. Not a soul remained in the Old State House, the place was totally empty. Vic was missing, and so were all of his goons. And worst of all, Johnny actually got a headcount on how many guys there would have been in here, if he hadn't been so lucky as to find the place barren. It's not like he knew every one of Vic's guys by face and name, and only a handful of them would ever come out onto the street at any given time, but going through the whole building like this enabled him to count every mattress, and come to the concerning number of 29 people-- 30, including Vic himself.

30 fucking people, and he thought he could just waltz in here and kill them all with just him and his best friend. Despair fills his chest, and in his drug-addled mind, all he can think is that Vic was somehow warned of the incoming plan, and fled the area to save his skin. It doesn't occur to him that it doesn't make sense, that he'd only come up with the plan less than an hour ago in a drugged-out haze in an abandoned house. Full of hopelessness, he just lays down in the middle of the floor in Vic's room and stares up at the ceiling, his heart and stomach aching in equal measure. Who the fuck did he think he was anyway, honestly? He's no hero. He's just a fucked up kid from a fucked up family with a fucked up friend in a fucked up city. He's nothing.

Johnny agonizes, and Dutch waits. And waits....

When ten minutes pass and there's still no sign of Johnny, he wonders what might have happened to the kid. He'd seen him enter the state house, but hasn't seen him come out. People below are huddling away from the sound of gunfire, even if it was just one shot that's all it takes in the Commonwealth for things to pop off, but Vic's goons surely would have come running at the sound of gunfire. They hadn't, and Johnny is nowhere to be seen either. Dutch's mind immediately goes to the worst case scenario. 

They might have taken him and beaten him to a pulp like Danny, in which case it might be a day late and dollar short to storm in and get him, but there had been a time when Dutch had been in that same situation. In a den of danger, life threatened and half dead, and Johnny had come back for him. Dutch can't let it go on any longer, not if he wants to keep whatever shred of a conscience he has. He packs up his things and darts out of the building, tearing out into the street like a white bolt of lightning. He crosses to the state house and goes in the back way, but finds it unguarded. The lock's easy enough to pick, and when he's inside he finds the place deserted and quiet as death. 

His rifle doesn't leave his steady hands as he does a sweep of the place. It becomes quickly apparent that neither Vic _or_ his guys are here, which is a rare occurrence in Goodneighbor, and it's only when he's crossing a room that he finds Johnny by tripping over him. Managing to catch himself on the desk, Dutch curses out loud. 

"Damnit Johnny! What the _fuck_ are you doin'? Takin' a nap?" 

"They're all gone, Dutch," Johnny's words are slightly slurred, and his eyes are bloodshot-- the telltale signs of a man nearing overdose. And he doesn't even look like he's fighting the backslide, he's just drowning under the waves of sensation steadily numbing him and dragging him down deeper into this pit of despair. "They're gone. There's too many of 'em, anyway... would've died if they were here. Would've failed. You woulda died, too... woulda been my fault. My brother was right about me. He was fucking right, I'm fucking-- nothing. I'm nothing. I don't fucking deserve to be here..."

He turns over, curling up on his side in the middle of the floor, and presses his overheated cheek against the cool wooden floor, and starts to cry.

Dutch straps his gun to his back once more, and crosses back to Johnny to roll him over with his foot, and presses his boot down against his sternum. He doesn't step, but he looks down at him with a snarl on his face, "Shut the FUCK up Johnny. You're not fuckin' nothing, so what if Vic's not here and his guys are gone, huh? You need to stop beatin' the hell out of yourself, Kid. This is gettin' stupid." 

For once, Dutch's words don't seem to get through to Johnny. Maybe it's the drugs, maybe it's the depression, maybe it's an ugly combination of both, but the older man's aggressive words of wisdom aren't enough to pull him back out of it. He's in too deep, gone too dark, and he looks up at Dutch with the eyes of a man who's completely given up-- because he has. He had his one streak of bravery, this one second of blind optimism, and now that it's leaked back out of him, there's nothing left. 

Worse than nothing, there's actually less than there was before. Whatever baseline Johnny usually had for functioning while deeply depressed in this shithole area of the country is gone now, sunk lower than it's ever been before. Lower even than how fucking pathetic he felt for just walking out of Diamond City after his brother made the order to just kill all the ghouls in the whole place. He could have fought harder then, he fucking should have. He wanted to, and he just... didn't. Because he's chickenshit. 

He had a chance here to be something he could have been proud to look at in the mirror, he had a moment of clarity, and now... it's just gone. It feels like a giant sign blaring in his face that no matter how high and mighty he gets thinking that he can make the world a better place, the world will always find a way to stop him. There's no point in trying, and things are only going to keep getting worse. 

"You should go, Dutch," he says, his head swimming. "Just leave me here."

Dutch's face only darkens. Usually, his hardass drill-sergeant schtick would get the kid up in record time, but he just lays there like a dead fish. Something about it makes Dutch angry, but not in a way that he wants to yell or kick him upside his stupid, pretty head. It makes him angry in a deep, determined way that tells him in his gut that he can't go _anywhere_ right now. 

"If you're stayin' here then I'm stayin' here." He squats down beside Johnny and looks at his face, his eyes are glassy and lost--god damnit they might die here together, but he can't just leave the kid here. 

Johnny's eyes go shiny with tears as he lets out a pitiful, wheezy and completely humorless laugh. Of course Dutch is staying. Of _course_ he wants to stay. Dutch has been the best thing to happen to him, frankly the only good thing he thinks has _ever_ happened to him, and here he is, planning to ride this train into the fucking ground with Johnny. He didn't honestly expect the old ghoul would leave... and he's got mixed feelings about him staying. On the one hand, he feels desperately sad that he came into this old asshole's life just to be the reason he'll die-- if Johnny's plan doesn't kill him tonight, then Vic's men coming back tomorrow will, and if Dutch hasn't cleared out by then... well, hopefully he'll call well enough alone and ditch as soon as Johnny's gone. But on the other hand, he feels warm in his chest over the fact that Dutch wants to stay with him. 

He pushes up onto his hands and knees and sits up, putting his back to Vic's desk, and opens the cooler with the radiation drug in it. He has no doubt it'll kill him, _he_ can feel the radiation coming off of it, and he's not even a ghoul. He knows Dutch can feel it too as he turns the device over to figure out how to use it. There's a needle attached, just like a vial of psycho, and he pushes up his sleeve after setting the vial in his lap. He catches sight of his own track marks and feels his stomach plummet queasily all over again as he's reminded of his brother's distaste for his drug habits. It was just an excuse, for him. He hated John long before he started using. 

Before injecting himself, he looks up at where Dutch has settled beside him, and reaches up to cup the side of his neck, leaning up to kiss not his lips, but his cheek. A somehow more intimate gesture than any of the times they've had sex, and then sags back against the desk at his side with a muttered, "I don't fucking deserve you." 

"You're not gonna take that, are you?" Dutch asks. It's maybe the first time he's ever expressed any sort of disdain for Johnny's drug habits, and it allows him to skirt the topic of whether or not the kid _deserves_ him. It's more important, his safety. The vial is full of radioactive material, Dutch can feel it pulsing in his temples pleasantly, a warm buzz between his ears. To normal humans, it's poison but to him it's like soaking up the rays of a healing beam. 

Rather than answer Dutch with his words, he just jabs the needle into the well-worn vein in his arm. He hears Dutch say something but as soon as he pushes in the plunger, everything goes _weird_. It's like his ears blow out entirely, kind of like when someone discharges a gun in a small room, the numb and dull ringing of ear drums that are just too shocked to work properly anymore. He feels a painful tingling under his tongue and in the corners of his jaw, and hears a crackling noise inside his head, and then all at once it's like his brain is just floating above his body. 

It feels like his limbs are full of static, and when he looks down with his vision spiraling around him, he can watch the glowing green liquid as it pumps through his veins, shining through his skin as it makes its way to his heart and spreads through his body. It moves fast, so fast that Johnny thinks maybe it has time altering properties like some of the other drugs he's taken-- and then he stops wondering anything as it hits his brain. 

His limbs all start to quiver and he sighs as he looks up towards the ceiling, his body feels warm and heavy, like lying under a stack of blankets on a cold night. That comforting weight, the pressure bearing down on his body, and then he could swear he's having an out of body experience as he watches Dutch catch him as his body slips sideways and goes limp, his eyes rolling back. Dutch is still saying something, but Johnny can't even remember how they got here. He can taste metal in his mouth, his teeth turning pink as his gums bleed, and then he slingshots back into his body and opens his bloodshot eyes with a shuddering sigh. He feels fucking _weird_.

Dutch stays with him. He talks to him, even though he gets no words out of Johnny. The kid's too far gone, and Dutch the entire time he's nursing him on the floor while the drug takes effect, feels a sickening pang in his stomach off and on, with the realization that this drug might be killing him and unless he can find some radaway fast, it might be too late for him. Of course he doesn't have any, and Dutch can't just leave him here alone, so stupidly and against his own will, he stays there with him on the floor and holds him. 

He looks down at him and takes his face in with worry, wondering if he can even hear him. "Johnny, you still with me? You don't look so good." 

As if he needs to say it out loud, but he can see a trickle of blood against the pale, pristine skin of his face. He doesn't have any rad-x or radaway in his bag, he never carries it--why would he? He can't leave Johnny, not here. Maybe he ought to carry him out. He's telling himself again and again, but his legs don't work. 

Johnny looks up at Dutch's face, and he looks different. Like his skin is glowing, like there's a light coming from inside of him that shines between his teeth and glows in his throat as he talks. The words are lost, but my god... he looks beautiful. Johnny reaches up with a shaking hand to stroke Dutch's cheek, following the lines of his face with his fingertips, tracing the old scars and wounds reverently, like he's studying a painting. 

And then he passes out again. 


	2. Chapter 2

It's a rough ride, from start to finish. A lesser man might have just keeled over and died. Maybe it's Johnny's unique fighting spirit, even when he's so beaten down emotionally his body refuses to give up. Or maybe it's just pure fucking luck, because he happened to be the brother of someone important for a good chunk of time, so he got better drinking water and cleaner food and more regular medical care and all-around just was healthier than most other people (minus the chems) Or maybe it's just Dutch being there. Maybe there's a little part of Johnny who doesn't want to die, just because of Dutch. He might not fight so hard if he was alone. 

The symptoms are rough. He throws up a lot, though most of it is bile, eventually it starts speckling with blood. It's red blood, at least, it's not bilrious or tarry, but that doesn't make it less concerning when red runs across the floorboards. He has horrible shakes, like he's feverish, and he keeps passing out and breathing hard. It looks terrifying from the outside-- but on the inside, Johnny's riding it like the weirdest trip of his life. He doesn't feel any pain, he just feels all numb and floaty and tingly as he drifts in and out of consciousness.

And Dutch stays with him, often with Johnny in one arm, and his rifle in the other. He's on high alert, due to the fact that Vic and his goons could return at any moment and find them pinned down to the spot, but he can't help but stay put. There's a fear that if he moves Johnny he could freak him out. He's tripping hard on whatever the hell was in that drug, and bringing him out into the lights of Goodneighbor, exposing him to the elements, might do worse than just staying here and hoping for the best. If Vic and his guys traveled, they might be gone for a few days. That's what he hopes anyways. Dutch isn't one to bank on hopes, but he'll do it for Johnny.   
  
At some point, he at least takes him to a less vulnerable position. Leaving him for only a little while, he pulls a mattress from another room, into a large closet space, and gets them cozy there with a lantern and his gun. It not only gives Johnny a soft place to lay, but also provides them with a hiding spot that hopefully Vic and his guys wouldn't look first thing if they come back. It'll be easy to be quiet here, and wait it out if someone comes home, and it's close to the back door, so when Johnny comes to, they can slip out. 

And even so, having done all that, Dutch still feels a tremendous sense of terror. He keeps analyzing it, trying to understand where it's coming from. At first he'd pinned it on the fear of being caught here, but once they're hidden its still there, and the longer Dutch looks at that feeling....the more he realizes that for the first time, in a _very long time_ he's scared of _losing_ someone. 

Those aren't feelings Dutch likes to have. For so long it's just been he and his dog, and while Johnny's been a close friend for a couple months, Dutch had never been so directly responsible for his well being. Not like this. And it scares him how deeply he feels that care for the kid. Watching him trip out, keeping him safe in the closet and letting him touch him and throw up in the bucket--it's all projected onto a huge, black backdrop of terror and concern. Fear and worry are feelings Dutch hasn't felt for anyone in such a long time that it's hard to recall the last time. It scares him how deep that fear runs, and how willing he is to put himself in harm's way to stop Johnny from hurting himself. 

How Johnny actually makes it through the night is a fucking mystery, but he doesn't come out the other side unscathed, that's for fucking sure. There's a familiar and very concerning change in some of Johnny's appearance that Dutch can't help but notice. The redness of skin that comes with radiation poisoning is especially prominent in his hands and fingers, on his cheeks and throat, and it's especially bad at the injection site in his elbow, where the needle first entered his system. Both there and the cut that had been left on his cheek by one of Vic's guys are looking rough, like they'd spread and gotten bigger, and turned into a more prominent open sores. 

It looks like the first stages of turning into a ghoul. Or maybe it's just intense radiation poisoning. Whatever it is, it doesn't go away when the last of the drug finally seems to leave his system, several hours later. Morning light is shining through the boarded-up windows of the old state house, and Johnny finally stopped shaking long enough to get a couple hours of tense sleep-- tense for Dutch, who had to keep checking if he was even breathing, when he couldn't tell just by looking at him. 

When Johnny finally opens his eyes again, the pale blue irises have been ringed with deep red veins, the sclera all bloodshot and raw, and his whole body fucking _burns_. He feels like he's being bitten by ants, or like someone squeezed citrus into open wounds. He groans and rolls over onto his hands and knees, his limbs shaky and weak, and he can't even breathe deeply without pain in his chest. 

"Fuck..." he groans, and as the realization that he's aware sinks in, it hits him that he fucking survived the night, and an intense cocktail of misery grips him by the chest, and he confirms for Dutch in just three words that he was, in fact, trying or at least hoping not to survive. " _Fuck_ , I'm _alive?"_

"Yeah, you're alive." Dutch's voice comes, not from beside him, but from above. Johnny's rolled over, but they're not in the little space he vaguely remembers from before with the kerosene lantern and Dutch's gun to keep them company, they're somewhere else? Out in the state house maybe, Dutch looks tired. "Had to chase you around a little bit while you were comin' to, I think your legs were tryin' to work, so you ran out here and just collapsed." He shifts from foot to foot, and presses his gun over his shoulder. "You look like shit." 

Though it's his usual, uncaring attitude, there is something softer in Dutch's voice, in the way he says it. Like 'you scared me you fucking asshole' but he only leaves it at those four words. Maybe it's more apparent that he's worried by the look on his face, thin brows drawn up with the usual sneer on his face gone, apart from that little strip of upper lip that's missing, showing his gold tooth. 

Johnny sits up with his whole body aching, and looks up at Dutch with a truly defeated expression. He really can't do anything right-- he can't even _kill himself_ right. He looks down at his hands, turning them over and over and inspecting the red blotches that... probably should be painful, but it doesn't really feel like anything but skin. Probably a lingering side effect of the drug. The texture is a little bit leathery and oily, as if he'd been burned, but it doesn't feel raw or painful at all. Weird. 

He looks back up at Dutch again with a weary expression. He doesn't even have it in him to cry anymore. After the massive failure of his big, stupid hero plan last night, followed up by failing to even die, forcing himself to _live_ with his failures... it's too much for one stupid 21 year old to bear. He's barely even an adult and he already feels like he just wants to be done with the world. 

"How do you do it, Dutch?" he asks, his voice crackly and hoarse in his chest. "How do you... fucking find the will to keep living. You've been around for _hundreds_ of years, and I already wanna give up after a couple decades. How the fuck... _why_ do you want to stay alive? Are you just scared death'd be worse than this shit?"

"John-Boy," Dutch crouches down next to him and sets him with a serious look. "This Danny thing's got you fucked up, and I get that but you need to put it behind you. You wanna know how I keep goin'? I don't fuckin' stop, that's how. Whatever the fuck happens to me, I keep movin'. You stay in one place too long--mentally, physically whatever the fuck--you're gonna stagnate and feel like nothing's worth doin' anymore. It happened. You gotta stop kickin' the shit outta yourself for it and pick yourself up by the goddamn bootstraps." 

"But why?" Johnny asks miserably. "I'm serious, Dutch. What is there worth living for? Just for the sake of it? You were alone for so long... you didn't even have someone to live for. You got Fluffy now, but you haven't always had her... what keeps you going? Spite? Hope?"

Dutch's glare deepens, "I've wanted to die before." his throat audibly clicks when he swallows. "Where the fuck do you think I got these cuttin' scars? I've almost killed myself more than once--I regretted it every fuckin' time." 

"You tried?" Johnny's eyes flick down to Dutch's scars. He'd never really questioned them before-- it's not like he's seen a lot of people in his lifetime who survived suicide by cutting. Until he was kicked out of Diamond City he lived a pretty cushy life, all things considered, even if he was a troublemaker. Plus, Dutch is covered in so much scar tissue as it is, they didn't stand out against his skin all that much. But he can see the marks now that he's looking at them. He looks back up at his face with an expression that's equal parts scared, hopeful and resigned as he asks, "Why'd you regret it?"

"Because it fuckin' hurt me and it hurt everybody else around me." Dutch slaps him in the ear--it's not hard enough to hurt, just a gentle cuffing that whistles air into his ear and makes his head buzz warmly. "How the fuck do you think I'd feel if you died, numbnuts? I wouldn't be dancin' on your grave that's for damn sure." 

Johnny's chest feels warm when Dutch admits that he cares enough about him that he'd miss him if he was gone. He wasn't honestly sure the old ghoul felt anything for him at all. He swallows hard and looks down at his hands again, rubbing his thumb over one of the burned patches, waiting for it to hurt. It still doesn't. "Did you have people before me?" he asks, his chest throbbing as he thinks of himself as Dutch's people.

"I've had people before." Dutch grunts, shifting to sit in the dirt with Johnny, he cocks his gun away from the kid and lays it aside on the ground within reach. "Friends, guess you could call 'em. Used to be in the NCR, was a Raider for awhile. Then I was in the Khans. You learn to stick with people the longer you try to survive in this world....now I got you, John-Boy." 

Johnny's never had people before. He's never even had a _person_ much less _people_. To be part of some kind of community, to be a part of a whole something... just the idea makes his body shake, as the regret starts to finally sink in. He could have died last night. Shit, he could have _died_ last night. Dread pools like hot lava in his chest and his eyes go glassy as he starts to hyperventilate, staring down at the floor to try and calm down before it gets really bad. 

"I want that," he says, his muscles all twitching tiredly as they try to coax him into giving in to full-body shakes. "I want to have people. I don't want to die, I'm a fucking idiot, I just got so fucking-- scared and stupid and sad-- I'm sorry--"

"Well, you're alive now, kid. We should get the hell out of this rathole before Vic and his guys come back. He'd probably try to beat us down if he found us in here." Dutch grabs his rifle and looks seriously at Johnny. "C'mon.." 

Something in Johnny's stomach clenches at the idea of just... leaving. He had some kind of insane breakthrough last night while high about killing the man making the life of every person in Goodneighbor a living hell, and freeing them all from the goddamn perdition they're stuck in, only to have a break down after and try to kill himself cause he got feeling so hopeless-- and now just... what, leave? Walk out just like that, and go back to life like normal?

He looks up at Dutch as he stands, the pain and confusion and guilt all clear on his face-- and then he notices something past Dutch's shoulder. A flash of red catches his eye, and he glances past him to the mannequin of John Hancock leaned up against the wall, where it had been haphazardly cleared out of the museum space to make room for beds and militia equipment, tossed into a cracked glass case with some other revolutionary war paraphernalia. The only reason John even knows who Hancock was is because he grew up so privileged in Diamond City, in an environment with a school where he had the opportunity to learn about history and how to read. 

Standing up, he feels drawn in by those clothes, and he squints at them as he reaches out to lay his hand on the glass. "These belonged to John Hancock," he mutters. "I learned about him in school." It might seem like it's coming out of fucking nowhere, but Johnny can feel the train of thought beginning to pick up speed as it leaves the station.

"He signed the Declaration of Independence or some shit, right?" Dutch looks over the clothes. They don't look like much to him. Vaguely he realizes that he should probably be in some kind of state of wonderment, looking upon the clothing of the man who'd ratified the rights of the United States, but really it doesn't mean much anymore. Not after the bombs fell. Looking to Johnny though, there's something in his eyes as he takes the garments in. Like he's forming a plan right before Dutch's eyes, but he couldn't tell what without asking him. "Why's it matter? You gonna write a new Constitution, John-Boy?" 

Johnny laughs softly. "He didn't just sign the declaration, man. He was the governor of Massachusetts-- the area we're living in right fuckin' now. He was a real scoundrel. Born into a rich family but didn't just sit on his ass about it like every other well-off motherfucker at the time, he used that money to actually do some good. He was one of the pioneers of American independence, and he was the first one to sign that piece of paper when they finally made it a reality. He's a fucking hero." 

He walks over to one of the windows in the state house, and peers out through the boards at the people milling on the street. "Those people down there are powerless. They don't have any fight left in 'em-- hell, some of them don't even know _how_ to fight. They're all too tired and too beat down to fight for themselves-- but that don't mean they don't still deserve to be fought for. Where's _their_ Hancock? Where's their hero to protect people like Danny from eating dirt just for having a smart mouth?"

Dutch squints out of the little sliver of window and looks down with Johnny. There's a tense silence between them, broken only by the quiet chatter of the people down below. It's only after that silence has stretched that Dutch stands upright again, with his gun over his shoulder and clicks his tongue. 

"You havin' some kinda Silver Shroud moment, Johnny? You okay? That drug still go your head fucked up?" 

Johnny gives another chuckle, shaking his head. "I'm not talking about putting on a mask and kicking criminal ass in alleyways, Dutch. I'm talking about putting together a fucking militia. Get these people riled up, get 'em angry and get them to outnumber Vic and his attack dogs. I'm talking about getting them to defend _themselves_. Nobody's gonna be a fucking hero for them, that's my point-- they don't need one, anyhow. Every bastard out there is alive because they clawed their way through the city out there with its raiders and its super mutants and its feral ghouls to be _here_ , there's not a goddamn one of them out there who couldn't fight for their freedom and win-- they're just all so fuckin' scared they don't realize it. Hell, I was scared, I get it. But if I can wake up, so can they."

"A militia, huh?" Dutch shifts his weight from even keeled, to leaning on his good leg to give the weight on his bad knee a rest. He clicks his tongue again and sighs. "Well...in for a penny, in for a pound right? I said I'd help ya get rid of Vic--so what're we gonna do? Go out there and raise hell?" 

Johnny frowns. As appealing as the idea of just hitting the street with a rousing speech is, getting everyone keyed up with just the right words so they march the building and hold the fort with all the guns left inside until Vic comes back, he knows it's unrealistic. 

"Nah-- that wouldn't work. I know how scared they are. You're just some fuckall ghoul nobody knows, and I'm just the new kid in town, I don't even rent property here, I'm just one of the drifters. They wouldn't listen to us. This shit's gonna take time... we're gonna have to chip away at them. Build up their confidence. Collect resources, maybe call in some outside reinforcements. Nah... this is gonna be a couple months in the making. Are you in?"

He looks up at Dutch with hope and fear in his eyes. He's frankly terrified by the idea of trying to put together some kind of fucking militia, as if they're heroes, but he knows with Dutch at his side he could accomplish anything. He could fight the goddamn sun if Dutch was with him.

Dutch sucks his gold tooth. It would mean serving again and putting himself on the line for other people he doesn't know anything about-- but he knows Johnny. And it's easy to see that this means something to the kid. He'd stuck by him all night while he'd lived through the worst of that radioactive goo--he could have ditched then, but he hadn't, thanks to those feelings he'd had. Those feelings, resurfacing now and prickling the back of his neck when Johnny looks at him. Maybe he ought to say no, and move along. It's not his fight, not _really_ but....

"Yeah, I'm in." Dutch finally says, nodding resolutely. 

Johnny's face splits in a grin, and he immediately jumps up, throwing his arms around Dutch's neck with a shout of joy that has Fluffy bounding around their feet and barking. "Fuck yeah!" he digs his fingers into Dutch's thin white hair and gives him a hard, brief kiss on the mouth before dropping back to his feet. "Pack up, we gotta get out of here before Vic gets back, there's a lot we gotta do. You leave first, I'm gonna go out the other door, I'll meet you back at your place and we'll put together a plan. You're the best, man, you fucking rock on ice." 

He's already scooping up their things, shoving it all back together, and then he catches sight of the mannequin again. It's probably crazy, but... he smashes the glass with his elbow and strips that, too, on his way out the door, and once he gets back to Dutch's place, he shrugs the coat onto his shoulders, inspecting himself in the broken shards of a cracked mirror on the wall. 

Honestly, this is what he should have done for the ghouls of Diamond City. It's what he wanted to do, even if he didn't have the capacity to realize it at the time, much less act on it. Hell, if they succeed here, maybe the second stop will be Diamond City to topple his shitheel brother off his ivory tower and free the people there, too. Shit, maybe this _is_ a Silver Shroud moment.

It proves out to be a lot harder to built a militia than one might think. Sure, it's an undertaking but it's hard to really let it occupy realistic space in your mind. Dutch doesn't have many NCR contacts this side of the Rocky Mountains. He'd left most of them behind when he'd left the Mojave. However, there are a couple of guys he knows who went into the Minute Men and then ditched before it went to shit, so one of the first things Dutch does is ask them for help in obtaining weapons or anything, really, for their militia. Of course, he wouldn't hear back from them for a couple of weeks. It would have been faster to just go to each of the individually, but they've got other shit to do. 

Like fortifying the place. That's hard to do with Vic and his guys wandering the streets like a pack of hyenas. In the first week, they manage to get together some resources to fortify one of the buildings in a back alley, which Dutch and Johnny start using as a base of operations. It's better than using Dutch's house on the main drag--less suspicious too, for when they start to recruit more people. Gathering in the Ghoul's house would tip Vic off to something, but nobody comes back here--it's too close to raider territory for most to feel safe, but with boards going up over the windows and getting the place cleaned up and out, it's serviceable. 

While Johnny doesn't think of himself as the "leader" by any means, it's clear that the people of Goodneighbor do, as they flock to their back-alley sanctuary in droves. First it was just the drifters, twenty or so people who were willing to fight under a united banner to free themselves from Vic's tyranny. The banner in this case being Johnny's bright red coat. They even start calling him Hancock, first as just a joke, but then it becomes somewhat of a codename around town. Any time they needed to talk about the militia discretely in a public place, they would say something about Hancock needing them, and their secrecy would be preserved. 

After a few weeks, it wasn't just the drifters anymore. Some of the homeowners started to get in on it-- followed by the small business owners. Everyone in this fucking town had a bone to pick with Vic, every single goddamn one of them. Most surprisingly, a couple of Vic's men themselves leave his service to join them. It was a move that Dutch regarded with high suspicion at first, and a few of the other militiamen were skeptical enough to suggest making them "prove" their loyalty by cutting off a finger, but Johnny squashed that attitude quickly and firmly. 

And surprisingly, they actually listened. They took to his guidance and leadership as if he did anything to fucking earn it. As if he wasn't a shitty rich kid from Diamond City who woke up after having one traumatic experience in the streets of Goodneighbor. As if everyone hasn't had traumatic experiences in the Commonwealth. But still, they listened. Just like that day on the streets when Danny was killed, everyone was just standing around hoping and praying that someone else would stand up so they wouldn't have to. And it looks like Johnny was going to be that person.

Once they get the supplies from Dutch's guys, it's easier to stockpile arms, which draws more people to the safety of the sanctuary. It's an allure on their behalf, when people talk about the NCR supplies and the safehouse in hushed tones. People who overhear others talking in the bar, come to wonder for themselves if it really could be possible to take this place back as theirs, and more and more of them flock to the cause. 

Johnny leads the people out through back entrances, through weak spots in the fence to take them out to the ruins, where he and Dutch teach them how to handle their guns, if they haven't had practice, and how to balance and hold a knife if things get hairy in close quarters. They're gaining momentum faster than they thought they would, faster than Dutch especially thought that they would. Those old feelings of fear creep back into him sometimes when he sees the sanctuary filling up with insurgents. 

It's been a long time since Dutch has hitched his wagon to a cause, even if it's something small like giving Goodneighbor back to the people. Johnny's got big plans, and somewhere around week seven, Dutch is realizing that this Kid is just the person to get something like this done--which only makes Dutch think maybe he _isn't_ the right person to help him do it; mostly he's able to rid himself of those thoughts, but they do come back. The bigger their numbers grow, the more his doubt and worries do, too. 

And it's not just the militia he has to worry about, either. As the weeks have gone on, Dutch has seen more and more worrying signs on Johnny's body. Those red blotches on his hands never went away, and in fact spread up his wrists to his forearms, like he's wearing red and pink silk gloves. The mark on his face never went away either, it never healed up and only spread across his cheek and down his jaw. Both of them know what's happening to him, neither of them are stupid or in denial, and neither are the people of Goodneighbor. Half of them are ghouls themselves, who experienced the change in their own ways. They just don't talk about it. 

Why should they acknowledge it? It's a consequence for what he did to himself that night, and one he'll have to live with forever. He's okay with that, he's come to terms with it. With how rough he abused chems, he's frankly surprised it took him this long to turn into a ghoul. Not that he is abusing chems anymore... which is a startling byproduct of all of this. 

He didn't even make the conscious decision to stop, he just... did. He had too much to do, too many things to spend money on. Guns, first aid, armor, ammunition-- there just wasn't anything leftover for chems. And he found himself not even feeling the itch for it, either. There was so much to do, so much to organize, so many things to take account of, so much to keep his mind occupied that he didn't even have the time to crave a syringe of med-x. Once in a while he'll pop a mentat or two when he needs a boost to work through the night with Dutch and a few of his NCR pals on their map of Goodneighbor, going over and over the plan, but it's a far cry from the night when he took almost every chem he could get his hands on and then some.

Johnny can see himself transforming into a responsible leader before his own two eyes, and oh if his brother could just fucking see him now. Red coat on like a fucking superhero cape, about to save an entire fucking city in the way he couldn't even lift a finger to pretend to consider.

The more Johnny blossoms, the more Dutch worries that he's an anchor tied to the kid's waist. Like a pair of cement boots, he's dragging him down by being a reminder of his past, or that's what Dutch thinks in the quiet moments when he's by himself. It's easier to forget when Johnny kisses him in privacy, when he tells him how important he is without saying it in such an overt way. Dutch is smart, he can pick up on those hints. He and Johnny have been together for almost half a year by now. So, when he has those thoughts alone, readying to fall asleep at the end of a long night, they get easier to disprove. 

When they've passed the three month mark, it feels like over half of Goodneighbor is gathering in their sanctuary during every meeting of the militia. Johnny seems to carry himself with more dignity than he used to, Dutch always watches everyone else when he's talking--they see something in him, the something Dutch had seen in him back then too. There's a light in Johnny that shines out whenever he talks. People _want_ to listen to him, and that's a good thing for a cause like this. They listen and they follow, but not blindly. There's a real community forming behind him, people who believe in themselves for the first time in recent history, who feel like they now have a voice to speak with, through "Hancock." 

Dutch is proud of him, when it comes down to it. He's come a long way in such a short time. Part of it was probably ditching the chems, but having a rallying point has given him a purpose, which a kid like Johnny had needed. Even if the radiation is eating him, he's no less willfull in his purpose, and that even gives Dutch hope that this will all work out. 

Johnny doesn't even recognize himself anymore-- not only because of the radiation poisoning slowly transforming him into a ghoul, just like Dutch, like the person he admires most in the world. Turning into a ghoul doesn't scare him-- watching his pretty blonde hair go thin, and his pretty blue eyes go bloodshot and red don't scare him like he thinks maybe it should. Maybe it _should_ scare him that he's not going to be pretty at all for very much longer, but at this point his physical beauty matters so little to him that he can't bring himself to care what he looks like (and maybe part of his lack of fear comes from the fact that turning into a ghoul means he'll have hundreds years more with Dutch, but he doesn't say that) 

There's time to think about the future later. Right now, they need to get ready to move. Planning can only get them so far. There's almost sixty of them now, double what Vic is packing himself, and between Dutch's NCR contacts and Kleo agreeing to forward Johnny a good deal of weapons practically for free, they're as armed as they'll ever be able to be. The plan has been solidified and gone over and over with the people. Who will stand where, who's the most effective from what vantage point, where the strength of the people lies and how exactly they're going to draw Vic out-- every second of this coup has been analyzed and prepared, including multiple contingency plans for various things that could go wrong. They're _ready_. 

Inspecting himself in the mirror the night before, Johnny-- _Hancock_ turns his face from side to side, inspecting his cheeks which have long since gone a shade of pink that almost rivals the coat, when he sees Dutch fill the doorway behind him like a stark white specter, with a grim expression. He turns to face the man with a soft look in his bloodshot eyes, and crosses the room to reach up and lace his hands together behind his neck. 

"It's going to be okay," he whispers, without Dutch needing to say a word.

Dutch's slender arms encircle him, and he hangs his head on Johnny's shoulder, uttering absolutely nothing for a bit. The only sound he makes is his gentle breath leaving him to pool hotly against Johnny's neck. He _smells_ like a ghoul now, Dutch notices every time they're close like this--and while that scares him, it also brings him a mixed feeling of comfort that gives him a share of guilt that he doesn't know how to contend with. 

"You look like shit," Dutch tries to deflect, but his voice is shaking a little bit. "Didn't have to turn yourself into a ghoul to be like me, you know? Stupid kid." 

"Maybe I didn't do it for you. Maybe I did it because it's fashionable," Johnny smiles, turning his head to rub his nose against Dutch's neck. He might not have a nose for very much longer, he has to enjoy it while he can. "Maybe I wanted to match my coat-- you don't know."

"Yeah...." It's all Dutch says, he presses his slender frame against Johnny and circles him more tightly with his arms. Although he's tall, he's not a very substantial man, but he still manages to feel strong around him. "Shit..." 

"I know," Johnny murmurs, closing his eyes and just sinking into the comfort of being held. "Tomorrow's the big day. How're you feeling about it? Scared? I'm kinda scared," he admits, before it has a chance to sound like he's trying to tease him.

"Yeah, I'm scared." The words feel foreign in his mouth. When was the last time Dutch Mathis admitted that he was _scared_ of something to anyone? Johnny's just different like that. He means more to him than most people have in the last twenty years. That old fear crawls over him again, casting a shadow over his brain. "Sometimes I think...you could do a lot better than me, you know that? This whole time we've been plannin' this thing, I keep thinking how I'm just--I dunno I'm holding you back." Dutch takes a step away from him and runs his fingers through his fine, white-blond hair. His eyes move to the floor, and he scrubs at his arm with the opposite hand--in that moment, he doesn't look like the six and a half foot monolith that he is, but almost like a scared little boy, afraid of rejection but all the same, wholly expecting it. 

"Dutch..." Johnny sounds almost scolding as he says it, coming up to nudge the older man's knees apart so he can stand between them, cradling Dutch's head in his hands and lifting his chin so he's looking up into his eyes. "I've been all over, man. Diamond City, every corner of Boston, I even skirted the edge of the Commonwealth for a few weeks one time. I've basically seen the whole world, so believe me when I tell you-- there is no one better than you. I picked the best horse in the race."

Dutch's mouth twists into a little check mark and he frowns, trying his best to sound tough but all he manages is a squeaky, "Who the fuck are you callin' a horse?" 

" _You_ , you long-faced son of a bitch," Johnny grins, running his fingers up through Dutch's hair, leaning on him so they're chest to chest and grinning from ear to ear.

The bigger man rests his hands on Johnny's hips and looks down at him seriously again, "I just know how jaded I am. Maybe you deserve somebody by your side who can actually I dunno, have faith in humanity again." 

" _Dutch_ ," Johnny drops the jovial attitude, winding his arms around the old ghoul's neck. "Listen to me, jackass. Everyone else in this town does, so unclog your 500-year-old ears and actually hear what I'm saying. I'm right where I wanna be. I'm _with_ who I wanna _be with_. You were right there by my side for every goddamn second when I needed you, even when I thought I didn't want you, and that's what makes you different from every other sucker in Goodneighbor. You took care of me when I was so depressed I didn't even have it in me to be grateful-- you didn't do it cause you'd get something out of it, you just did it cause-- well. I don't wanna put words in your mouth, but you get what I'm saying."

"Yeah," Dutch croaks. He bends down and kisses Johnny's forehead with the same tenderness that had made him stay by his side those times, and turns back toward the bedroom where they're staying, whereupon he sinks down onto the bed and sits on the side, head in his hands. 

"Hey," Johnny chases after him, refusing to let him run away from this moment, it's too important. He drops to his knees in front of the ghoul and pulls his hands away from his face to hold them instead, resting his forehead against the older man's. "I'd be nothing without you. I'd be _dead_ without you. And you'd be dead without me, too. We need each other just to make it in this fucked-up world. So just-- shut up and let me love you, okay?"

"Don't do that to yourself." Dutch pulls his hands away from Johnny and curls up on himself. "Stop...don't say that word." 

Instead of saying it again, Johnny just leans up and kisses the older man, cupping his face with both hands. Johnny knows Dutch well enough by now to know that his refusal has to do with the word itself-- with the official nature it brings, the expectation and promise and increased opportunity for disappointment-- not because he doesn't feel it, too. Getting ahold of something that big and wild and important makes the fear of losing it hurt so much worse. 

Dutch isn't the only one who's scared. Tomorrow could bring anything, it could spell victory or crushing defeat. Their planning could be all for naught in the end, they might die bloody in the same street that Danny did-- but if that would be their fate, Johnny didn't want to die without saying it, at least once.

Dutch kisses back, and he doesn't hesitate. It's the reciprocation that makes it ever clearer that he feels just as strongly for Johnny as anything, but when he does kiss him back there's a prickle of tears in his cloudy blue eyes that makes him gasp against Johnny's lips. He pulls back to look at him, panting and with glistening eyes. "John-Boy...you think this plan is gonna work? We're gonna take Goodneighbor back, right? It's gotta work." 

"It's gonna work," Johnny says, with absolutely no confidence behind it-- but he _sounds_ like he has confidence. That's part of what made everyone listen to him so far, pure bullshit. Dutch can usually see through his bullshit, but maybe Johnny's gotten better at it, or maybe Dutch just wants to believe him this time. "We've got the numbers, we've got the game plan, and we've got the weapons. There's no way in hell we aren't taking back Goodneighbor tomorrow."

"Yeah...yeah it's gonna work." Dutch looks him in the eye, the way Johnny looks back convinces him the kid has confidence in his plan. Pretty soon, he's going to have to stop calling him Kid. 

He looks away from Johnny, no longer able to hold his eye. "I need to shut my brain off. We got any Whiskey?" 

"I got something better than whiskey," Johnny murmurs, kneeling up again and reclaiming Dutch's mouth, this time with more tongue, demanding reciprocation as he reaches down to undo his belt. The truth is, he doesn't have any whiskey. He hasn't had a drop to drink in over three months, and other than the odd mentat here or there, he still hasn't used, either. He's a proper good, clean boy now. Maybe the incident with the radiation drug will put him off forever-- who knows. For now at least, he feels more clear-headed than he's been in a _long_ ass while.

It's just as good as whiskey, and probably better. Getting drunk the night before their big plan would probably not bode well, even if Dutch has gotten very familiar with the company of a hangover in the morning. It's Dutch's one big vice--the drugs he could leave, he only ever did them with Johnny anyways and they didn't do much for him, but drinking has been his crutch for a long time. Long before he met Johnny. 

Dutch's body relaxes behind the touch of his lover. He sinks back on the bed and lets Johnny press into his space, and he opens his mouth to accept his, kissing him slowly but hungrily, a soft sigh escaping into Johnny's mouth. Dutch's hands pull at his shirt and untuck it from his waistband, since he's blessedly not wearing that old coat now it's easier to get to his body and feel him. 

Johnny's torso honestly hasn't fared much better with the radiation that's been slowly poisoning him, his skin has turned red and patchy across his chest and shoulders, and whatever hair he once had on his stomach has long since fallen out, leaving him smooth and shiny, where scar tissue has formed-- but honestly, he doesn't mind it. He's never once shied away from all the scar tissue covering Dutch's body. Having a ghoul for a lover really does wonders for one's self confidence. 

With his shirt tossed to the floor, Johnny pushes Dutch back to lean on his elbows so he can pull his pants open, rucking the older ghoul's shirt up so he can kiss and nip his way down his belly, pulling at the fabric until he can free Dutch's cock, which lays against his hip for now as Johnny mouths wetly at his hip bone, and undoes the laces of his boots. It's their last night together before the fight, and Johnny wants them to be comfortable.

The soft breath of his lover lifts up from the bed, following the gentle rise and fall of his stomach. Dutch is lean and trim, weighs practically nothing despite his height, but there's some muscle under the ropey scares of his abdomen, covered over in tattoos and pockmarks. If Dutch has ever felt self conscious of his own body, he's never shown it to Johnny. 

He watches him, an arm thrown over his tummy. Cloudy blue eyes catch Johnny's reddening ones, and a knot twists in Dutch's stomach. He's turning into a ghoul, and every time Dutch realizes it, it also comes with the gut-punching reality that they _could_ have a life together. Most people he doesn't give himself time to get involved with--he's been alive for two hundred and forty years, and knows he'll be around a good long while more if the NCR's meddling with his genetics have anything to say about it. Johnny could be there for him, and he could be there for Johnny. 

But right as Dutch is getting into his head about it, his thoughts melt to the back of his mind. Kisses fluttering over his bony hip make his eyes squeeze shut and he forgets again, blessedly, he forgets about the aches of the world, and he just submits to the feelings that Johnny brings to life in his body.

Johnny's mouth finds his cock, running a trail of deep, wet kisses along the underside, encouraging blood to flow to the area. He fits his mouth over the ring in the tip of his cock and plays with it, letting it click against his teeth so the vibrations skitter down the length like little jolts of electricity, and he sucks it hard enough to tug at the ghoul's cockhead, but any contact with his lips and tongue against his flesh is incidental. 

Sitting up to his full kneeling height, Johnny massages his hands up and down Dutch's thighs once his boots are off his feet, slowly nudging his pants down off his legs. He takes his time, really digging his tongue into the loop of that piercing as he peels the older ghoul's pants down off his legs, until he's nude from the hips down, and so hard his cock is standing upright on its own. His hands continue their deep massage of Dutch's thighs, spreading his legs a little farther so he can nest comfortably between them.

Propping himself up on one elbow, Dutch looks down at him with hooded eyes. His black t-shirt is tugged up to his chest, and his cheeks are flushed bright red behind his paper thin, white skin. He's coming back into his head, after doubting himself and getting lost in those dark thoughts he wanders into occasionally--rarely does he speak them out loud to anyone. Just further proof of how deep he and Johnny's relationship has gotten. 

Finally sitting up, Dutch situates himself on the very edge of the bed and leans in, holding Johnny's face under the chin, in the palm of one hand. His thumb grazes over the cut that's slowly turning into raised, red scar tissue and is following suit to the growing lines of Johnny's face, where he's turning into a ghoul. 

"Pretty boy..." Dutch drawls in that Carolina swagger he has. "You want me to shut your brain off before the big day, hmm?" 

"Yeah," Johnny hums, turning his face into that hand to mouth kisses across his palm and the heel of his hand, letting his eyes drift closed as he runs feather-light touches up and down his cock. He plays with the ring still, cups and squeezes his balls as he nuzzles into the palm of his hand like a bird looking for a treat. Blue eyes roll back up to look at him and he gives a lazy little smile as he digs his thumb into the spot where Dutch's ring connects with the underside of his cockhead. "You're not gonna be able to call me pretty boy for much longer, so get it all out while you can."

"Oh Johnny," he chuckles, "I'm always gonna call you pretty." He leans in to kiss him, catching his chapped lips with his own. The kiss doesn't last long or linger, but the feeling of it buzzes on Johnny's lips. "On the bed, sweetheart." Dutch commands, his voice low and set with a certain degree of authority that Johnny's never been able to ignore. After the kid swings up onto the bed, Dutch joins him. His t-shirt gets pulled off in the process, and Johnny's undressed slowly but with purpose, the purpose being to get his blood pumping, to make him forget about their doubts. 

For the first time maybe, Dutch sits back on his haunches and looks at the way Johnny has changed in just the last month. The radiation hasn't been kind to him, red marks like burns rise in angry flares across his skin, marking him like the lines of a tree trunk with puckered welts that will one day become the lattice work of scars marring his skin in the way all ghouls are eventually. 

Dutch runs his thumbs over Johnny's hip bones, tracing long fingers up his sides and draws in to look at him a little better, "You and me, John-Boy." 

He knows what it means. 

Then, dropping down on his stomach, Dutch kisses along his belly and lifts his cock out of the way--already hard, he strokes it with no real aim to get him off and kisses a line up the side of it. He sucks a mark against the base and draws his fingers into his mouth to wet them--then he urges Johnny's hips apart and spears him, working up into him with careful, slow strokes. 

"Shit," Johnny's teeth clench and his legs fall open as Dutch's fingers work up into his core. It knocks the wind out of him, and his cock aches where it stands off his hips. He grips Dutch's shoulder in one hand, and his own hair in the other, tipping his head back with a groan as he braces his feet flat on the mattress. Dutch has never been this gentle with him before, and if it were any other time, he would accuse the ghoul of teasing him and demand or beg that he pick up the pace. 

But in this case, he knows that Dutch is just trying to savor what could very well be their last time together. Maybe tomorrow Johnny dies, or Dutch does-- or they both do, and this is the last peaceful, safe moment they'll have together. It makes his breath hitch in his chest to think of them being separated, so he distracts himself by opening his eyes and looking back down at Dutch. 

"Yeah-- yeah, that's it, that's it," he murmurs, his face flushed not only from the red patches on his cheeks and jaw. "Fuck, Dutch, that's _it,_ baby..."

Dutch's fingers drive into him, not teasing him or taking his time so much as working him over to make sure he's nice and soft. Maybe he is being more attentive than he normally would be, but it's also not every day that a man admits his love for another, without using those exact words--and maybe that's what's made him softer. No maybe about it, actually. Dutch knows, and he knows that Johnny knows too. He also trusts him not to grind it in. 

But Dutch grinds it in. He grinds his fingers in to the knuckle and works them against Johnny's prostate when he isn't fingering him open with pinpointed, scissoring strokes that leave him panting. And the while, Dutch kisses the inner corner of his hip, along the line that runs up beside his cock and carves a spot where his hip bone sticks out, where new scar tissue is already forming. 

"Fuck-- _fuck_ ," Johnny's whole body is pulsing, from his cock all the way up to his heart, pounding against his ribs in a rhythm that makes him dizzy. He looks down at the other man, taking in his pitted and gaunt cheeks, the pale white film of his lavender-blue eyes, his silverblond hair hanging down in thin strands around his face, and he falls a little bit more in love. 

Back arching, and without warning, he cums without a shout. He'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts, in his head, in his feelings, that he didn't realize how close he'd gotten with Dutch's fingers plugging relentlessly against his prostate. Pleasure spreads up through his stomach as his knees lift and tuck towards his armpits, curling up in an embarrassed little ball. He hadn't even warned Dutch, he didn't have the brain power to, and his fingers are still fucking into him.

"Good boy...good..." Dutch's rough voice is soft with praise, he fucks Johnny through his orgasm with the rake of his fingers, and it's only when the younger ghoul is spent and shaking a bit that Dutch pulls his hand away and wipes it on the bed. They rarely ever fuck missionary, usually it's doggy or Dutch bends him over a table or something, but tonight he positions himself between the kid's legs and lays out over him. 

It's just like all those months ago, when Johnny had gotten high out of his gourd after Danny had died, and Dutch had been just as purposeful and direct with him then as he is now. That makes it official, he's doing it on purpose and there's a pattern to it that can't be denied, but neither of them linger on it. Dutch doesn't like the word Love, and Johnny won't say it. 

Laying over him, Dutch presses the tip of his cock against Johnny's hole and thrusts in. His body accepts him with a warm, wet welcome that takes away Dutch's breath. Their hips meet and Dutch lets his mouth rest against Johnny's neck, the warmth of his breath spreading over his skin there, tickling the small hairs across his skin. Then Dutch starts to move, not so much fucking him as he is making love to him, cool air hitting his tummy every time Dutch pulls back, then he's greeted with the heat of his body once more. 

It's easily the most romantic sex Johnny has ever had. Not just with Dutch, but with _anyone_. He wraps his arms around the other ghoul's neck and bounces with his thrusts on the bed, clinging to his shoulders and whimpering against his skin. He doesn't want to risk being too loud and being overheard, but right next to Dutch's ear he can hear every soft whine and wail that he wrenches out of the younger man. It feels too good to be true, wrapped up in his embrace, as they make love before a smaller, more personal end of the world. 

"Dutch-- Dutch," he whispers the ghoul's name reverently, pleasure crawling up his spine and reigniting the tired muscles that had just gone slack from Johnny's orgasm moments ago. His cock aches between their stomachs, pulsing every time Dutch strikes his prostate, grinding in the space their bodies make together, warm with sweat and seed. Johnny lets his mind go blank, every corner of his brain occupied only with the ghoul fucking into him and shielding him from the rest of the world. 

Johnny can't tell if it lasted for five minutes or five hours, time seems to blur together, and for the first time without the use of drugs. Just wrapped up in Dutch's embrace, he loses track of reality. His entire world shrinks down to the two of them, moving in unison, breathing together, _being_ together. He cums again with his ankles locked around behind Dutch's back and his mouth pressed to the side of his throat, digging teeth marks in among the scars and tattoos. 

When they're lying side by side on the bed sharing a cigarette, Johnny watches Dutch show off by blowing smoke rings in the air, and he falls a little bit more in love. He turns up on his side to loop his arm over Dutch's ribs, nuzzling against his shoulder, and he considers telling Dutch again that he loves him, but decides not to. He doesn't want to jinx them. 

Tomorrow will come tomorrow, for tonight all he wants to be is with Dutch.


	3. Chapter 3

"Alright, listen up!"

It's the morning of, and all softness from last night has been forgotten. Johnny is back in _Hancock_ mode, with the coat on his shoulders and the hat on his head, and the flag tight around his hips. It's become his uniform, these last few months, and one he wears with pride as he paces up and down in front of their assembled militia-- some 45 men and women all bound together in arms to fight for their own freedom. 

"In a few minutes, we're gonna march out onto the streets of this town we love, and we're gonna kick in Vic's fucking door!"

Dutch is there on the sideline, with his formidable spiked shoulder pads and gun in hand, with Fluffy standing at his side with her armor strapped to her back. Hancock doesn't look at him, too afraid to go soft at such a crucial moment, when his people need him. And huh, isn't that funny-- when did he start to think of them as _his people?_

"We might not all make it out of this alive, but we WILL win! Anyone who dies today, your name is going down in Goodneighbor history! I'll carve your fucking names into the sidewalk myself if that's what it takes! Vic isn't gonna know what fucking HIT him! Are you all ready to fight for your rights as the citizens of Goodneighbor?!"

The resulting cry of _YEAH!_ is a little too loud to be safe, but it doesn't really matter. After this, they won't need to hide anymore. 

"Are you ready to make a fucking STATEMENT to the Commonwealth that ain't nobody just gonna lie down on their belly and get walked on forever!?"

Fluffy throws her head back and howls this time when the crowd shouts their assent. 

"Then let's get out there and make our MARK on this ugly world!" Hancock raises his gun, and every other gun in the room is raised in support, in unison, in a rebellious demand for justice in all the ways they'd been too afraid to fight for before.

Dutch shouts along with everyone, adding his gun to the stalks raised in the air. God he hasn't been behind a cause, an honest to God _cause_ in a very long time, so there are prickles of anxiety coursing through his entire body--but seeing Johnny poised in front of everyone in that getup does bolster him, and that makes Dutch really _realize_ the kind of power this kid has in him. 

Again, he gets that sour feeling in his stomach. _He's too good for me, he'll leave like everyone else once he realizes how bad I am for him._

It's a familiar thought, like an old friend in some ways, so he's able to bat it away and hoist his gun along with everyone else. They're moving as a unit now, with Johnny taking up the lead, charging ahead like all those old bastards in American history. Like George Washington and John Hancock, all those sons of bitches. Maybe, Dutch thinks, there's still a little bit of glory left in this place. 

They move out into the streets of Goodneighbor, and it's fitting that Dutch is the first person to shoot. He sees Vic's guys turning to look up the street, at the commotion of near-fifty people grandstanding their way across the main drag and Dutch takes aim with his rifle, and pops the head clean off of the man standing at the front of the group. 

It all happens very quickly after that. 

Vic inside barely understands what's happening. One second he's relaxing and the next, every man and woman in the State House are rushing for the doors, grabbing their guns and clubs and anything they can wrap their hands around to defend themselves with. The sound of gunfire and shouting fill the streets in seconds. 

Hancock claws his way to the front of the crowd and it takes both him and Dutch to break in the front door, when those inside try to barricade it from the other side. Fluffy drags someone down by their ankle and tears into his throat, while Hancock shoulders his way inside, followed by a flood of supporters. He hears a shout as someone behind him is shot down, and for just a moment his mission is forgotten. He can't, in good conscience, keep pushing forward for the glory of it all, directly at someone else's expense-- especially not since he now personally knows every single person in their militia.

"Keep going! Push him back!" he shouts at Dutch as he slips back through the crowd to pull the injured woman back away from the fray so she doesn't get trampled, and waves someone else over to tend to her. Sure, he said some of them might not make it out of this alive, but he's not about to _willfully_ let someone bleed out on the floor just so he can press forward with the mission personally. That would make him no better than Vic.

"He's gonna try to make it out through the balcony, we've got to get to him before he can!" Dutch shouts, in his very best sergeant's drone, something he'd picked up in the NCR and he's still held onto all these years. It'll pay off today. 

The injured woman is taken to the sidelines and carried off by two people, while others in the crowd are firing off crackshots at Vic's men trying to push them in from behind. The guys coming down from the building's upper floors are treated to the sight of a unit of angry citizens with guns, ready to blow their heads off, and they waste no time proving that they mean to do just that. 

Dutch wields his rifle over the heads of his fellows until there's space enough for them to fan out. They break off into groups, and Dutch takes the stairs, leading a pack of them up, after Vic who they can hear shouting from somewhere upstairs. Dutch blows the ear off of one his guys and he spins off in agony, holding the side of his head before he's picked off by someone else, and Dutch takes aim at another. 

It's a fight, getting back up to the fray, but Hancock is sure that the time spent to save the injured is worth it. He climbs over the bodies of Vic's men just to get back into the building and out of the chaos in the streets, where Vic's people and his own are all ducked behind cover, picking one another off wherever they can. The majority of Vic's guys are outside trying to prevent the bulk of the force from making it inside, so the ghoul has no trouble getting to the big, dramatic spiral staircase in the middle. 

All around him on every side he can hear the shouting and gunfire of his people, the people of Goodneighbor, fighting for their lives the way they deserve to live them, and it gives Hancock the courage to mount those stairs to the second and third floor, where Dutch and a small group of others are all camped outside a door, while Dutch tries to pick the lock. 

"He in there?" Hancock asks, ejecting his spent shotgun shells and loading in a few more. There's a scream somewhere below him, and his blood chills as he wonders whether it was one of his own or one of Vic's that made the noise.

"Yeah, I was gonna shoot the fuckin' lock off if I can't get it open. Might be faster." Dutch follows Hancock's gaze for a second, then looks at his shotgun. "Yours might do the trick better than mine, she's made for long range." 

"It'd be my pleasure," Hancock says, cocking the gun, and then aiming it right at the door knob. The door is blasted in, and just as he kicks in the door, a single gunshot rings out, and Hancock stumbles back as a bullet rips into his shoulder. Vic had been crouched behind a desk he kicked over, just waiting for them to make their way inside. 

Cursing, Hancock throws up his gun to point it at Vic-- his much _bigger_ gun that can do a lot more damage, evident just in the fact that it's a shotgun versus a pistol, and it's enough to keep him from firing again as Hancock throws up his injured arm in front of the others to keep them from advancing. 

"Look at him. Pissing his pants," his voice comes out as a growl, his vocal cords twisted by the radiation that's been spreading through him. The sound of gunfire is still filling the streets outside, and as blood runs down Hancock's arm and drips to the ground, he bares his teeth like a dog at the man cowering on the other side of the room from them. "Got anything to say for yourself, Vic?"

"What do you want, money? Drugs? I'll give you anything," Vic says desperately, his gunhand still raised and trembling. "Just don't shoot _don't shoot_."

"How many times somebody said that to _you_ , you sumbitch?" Dutch spits from behind Hancock, the rest of the small crowd gathers around the door, as if Vic needed further proof that he's outgunned and out numbered. There's a mob at his door, and there's no doubt they mean to put an end to him. "Shoot him, Hancock. He don't deserve to beg for his life." 

"No, listen to him snivel. Who would we be if we shot a man to death begging for his life?" Hancock says, narrowing his eyes at the other man. "You put yours down and we'll disarm, too."

Vic hesitates, his gun shaking, but he lowers his pistol, and true to his word Hancock lowers his gun too. He casts a look sidelong at his people, who seem confused by the ghoul's sudden change of heart, but obediently lower their weapons. Fluffy at Dutch's side growls, but even she plants her butt on the ground in an uneasy sit. 

"You fucked, stole, and beat this town into the _dirt_ , Vic," Hancock says as he takes a few steps forward with a lot of swagger in them, despite his bleeding shoulder. He points towards the open door overlooking the balcony, where the sounds of gunfire can still be heard. "Do you fucking _hear that,_ you sick son of a bitch? That's the sound of people PISSED OFF because of what you've done to this town. That's the sound of people who aren't gonna let people like you BULLY them anymore! They deserve better than you."

"If you let me go, I'll run, I'll never come back," Vic begs, hands raised in surrender. "You'll never see my face again, I swear, I _swear_ \--"

"Nah nah nah, we can't let him get away that easy, can we?" Dutch says, he's lowered his rifle but hasn't put it down. The barrel points toward the ground, hanging at his side, and he stands with his shoulders squared behind Hancock, several feet back, with a mean look set on Vic. "If we let him go, who's to say he don't go off to some other town and do the same damn thing? People like him don't change, they just get worse." Dutch snarls, "Fuckin' coward." 

"Yeah, Vic's the kind of guy who lets his guys beat us to death on the streets," Hancock growls as he looms over the man. "But we're better than him. Ain't we? That was the whole point of this. To make this place better cause _we're_ better."

Unfortunately, true to form, Vic goes and proves exactly why they're doing this. While they bicker, distracted, he raise his gun again, and this time he fires directly at Dutch, hoping to take him and his long, formidable rifle out. From his lowered vantage point he misses completely, the bullet veers off course by inches and embeds in the wall instead, but Dutch could feel the heat and wind off of it, as Vic then scrambles towards the doors in his confusion. 

"Alright _FUCK!_ Nevermind!" Hancock grabs him by the back of the jacket as another man grabs him by the ankle and they drag him to the ground, Fluffy clamping her jaws around his gunhand to try and disarm him. Hancock looks behind him at a stack of crates held together by a rope and jerks his chin towards it, glancing up at Dutch. "Here I was tryin' to be all fuckin' MAGNANIMOUS! Get me that fuckin' rope, he just lost his chance."

Dutch trains his rifle on Vic--he's on the ground, but Dutch doesn't trust like that--and he sidesteps to unwind the rope from the pile and brings it to Hancock. Once it's handed off to him, he gets both hands on the rifle and points it directly at Vic's head. 

"One more move, motherfucker," he growls, and need not say more. The implications in his words hang in the air between them. 

Hancock doesn't know how to tie a noose, but he hardly thinks it matters. He ties the rope around Vic's neck as the man thrashes on the ground, and then looks up when he realizes the sounds of gunfire have ceased from the street. In fact, the whole town seems to have gone deathly silent. He exchanges looks with the group he has with him, concern and confusion furrowing their brow as they strongarm Vic to his feet and shove him towards the open balcony door. 

As the sunlight of midday greets them, they realize the silence is because they _won_. The streets are littered with bodies, both allies and enemy alike, but the only people left standing are theirs. Chins lift and sunlight slants across awed faces as they gather around the middle of town to stare up at the man who helped them fight for their freedom. It's overwhelming, standing over them now and watching them all look up towards him for guidance. 

"This is for Danny, you parasitic scumbag," he growls, as he ties the other end of the rope to the railing of the balcony, and when he swings him over the edge, the resulting crunch of his neck breaking sends the people on the street into frenzied cheers. 

It's over in a matter of seconds. Vic only thrashes for as long as it takes his body to realize that his spinal cord is broken, then he goes still but for the twitch of his foot. His hands fall limp at his side to the cheering of the crowd, and Dutch exchanges a nod with Hancock as they stand overlooking the crowd. 

"Time for your speech." He says, shouldering his rifle with a smirk. 

_Speech?_ Hancock would think Dutch was joking, if it wasn't for the way every living soul on the streets was looking up at him now. It's hard to count how many they lost-- ten? A dozen? Certainly a whole hell of a lot less than Vic lost. He listens to the rope creak as Vic's body sways back and forth for just a second before he raises his gun over his head and shouts the first thing that comes to mind. 

"Of the people, for the people!"

Those selfsame people below lose their _minds_. There's cheering and screaming, a few guns fired off into the air just for the pleasure of it, embraces are shared between the living, some of them even fall to their knees in tears. Hancock can't blame them, they'd just fought like hell to get here, and lived to see it come to fruition. He'll probably be in tears himself later, when it all sinks in. Adrenaline makes his heart pound in his chest, and he glances sidelong at Dutch with a little twinkle in his eye. 

"How's that for a speech?" he murmurs.

Chuckling, Dutch nods and lays a hand on his shoulder, "Good enough, John-Boy." 

If Hancock thought it would end there, he was mistaken. The wounded are carried off to be tended to, as the dead are gathered and laid out in the street. Eight dead in total, of their people. Eight lives that were laid down for their cause, and true to his word, Hancock takes a knife and carves all eight of their names into the door of the State House, so their sacrifice would never be forgotten.

That night there's a celebration in the streets. Hancock empties Vic's house, strips out every scrap of food and drink he'd been hoarding from the drifters going hungry, and he lays it out to share. Someone pulls out an old guitar, and the people get just drunk enough to declare Hancock the new mayor of Goodneighbor. He thinks about denying the job-- but honestly? If he wanted to make sure Goodneighbor was never again run by a tyrant, who better than a newly-immortal man with a solid moral compass?

It's not much, in the grand scheme. Goodneighbor isn't huge, and it isn't even on most maps. It's just one shitty little town in one shitty little area of a country ravaged to pieces. But it's _their_ corner, and they fought like hell for it. 

Hancock finds Dutch sitting on the steps of the Rexford with a bottle of whiskey in hand, and takes his seat beside him with a groan. "So that girl I went back to save-- calls herself Farenheit. I'm pretty sure she's in love with me now," he says, just to tease the old ghoul as he relaxes back against the steps and reaches over the pluck the bottle out of his hand. "What about you? Are you gonna stick around now that the fight's won?"

The older ghoul takes a long drink from the whiskey bottle and bites back against the bitter flavor, letting the bottle sit between his ankles on the ground. He doesn't answer immediately, instead looking out over the people reveling. In his quiet, he's thinking about what staying would mean. Having a home, having a friend. Settling down and letting himself be quiet for at least a few years. It doesn't sound so bad, but he knows he might get itchy down the line. 

Taking a deep breath, Dutch finally looks at him. The firelight from nearby catches his silvery eyes and he smirks, "For now, I think I will John-Boy. I mean, if I go who's gonna keep you in line, huh?" 

"Yeah, it's up to you to whip up the next insurrection after I go mad with power," Hancock chuckles, leaning over to take the bottle and tip it back, stealing a few mouthfuls for himself. He leans back on the top step on his elbows, looking at the people, at his people with soft eyes.

"Be proud of yourself, okay dumbass?" Dutch chides softly. "Not everybody could do that, you know? You got a way with people--and these folks here in Goodneighbor are gonna look out for you, going forward. So don't fuck it up." He looks at him with a hard gaze that slowly softens, and he says, "I'm proud of you." 

The tears come all at once, and Hancock sits up, coughing to try and cover for it as he wipes at his eyes. "Ah, shit-- s'fuckin dusty here, what the hell--"

"You fuckin' idiot," Dutch laughs, patting him hard on the back. "C'mon, get it together." 

He wants to, but now that they've started, it's hard to control it. He thinks back on the last few months, on where he's come from and how far he's climbed since then. He was a drifter thrown out by the only family he ever knew, scared and content to live in that fear, only to finally work up the courage to do what it took to free himself and everyone who ever meant a damn to him from perdition-- just because he _could_. Nobody was paying him, he wasn't doing it because he owed someone, he did it because it was the right fucking thing to do. 

Honestly, he doesn't even recognize himself anymore. Hunched over on the steps of the hotel with his head between his hands as he fights a full-blown meltdown, surrounded by people who not only thought he was capable of greatness, but helped him get there-- after coming from nothing, it's almost more than he can bear. 

Looking back at Dutch with shiny eyes, he reaches out to squeeze his knee and mutters, "I couldn't have done it without you, you know that right?"

"Maybe not, I dunno." The other ghoul says, reaching out to grip Johnny's arm in kind, letting him know that at least he's right here, and he's not going anywhere. The commitment feels odd to Dutch, still but if anyone was ever worth it, it was Johnny. "I think we all had a part in this, but you really had the get up and go--it's been a wild few months." 

"Shut up," Hancock sits up straighter, and turns on the steps so he can lay a hand on the side of Dutch's neck. "You being here at my side-- I woulda just given up if I didn't have you. I wouldn't have had the strength or courage to kick as much ass as I did. You're my _person_ , asshole. Just... thank you for not giving up on me like everyone else."

Dutch holds his eyes for as long as he can without feeling a pang in his chest, then he skirts away and looks down at nothing, their legs pressed together. His head falls against Hancock's hand and he laughs. "I'm your person." He sounds almost relieved to say it. 

Hancock lets it hang at that, he doesn't press for more. Being Dutch's person, and Dutch being his, means understanding his limitations and loving him regardless. Hancock doesn't need to hear him say _love_ to feel it. In full view of god and everyone, he leans up to give the other ghoul a kiss right on the mouth. It's chaste, but it holds a million promises in its fleeting pressure. 

He doesn't know the first thing about running a town. For all he knows, he'll run it right into the ground and crash and burn miserably in his first year-- but he knows at least he wants to _try_. For the first time in his life, he feels hopeful about his own future, and what he might be able to accomplish. Not only for himself, but for everyone else, too. Maybe eventually he could even give Diamond City a run for his money and stick it to his brother. 

But really, who knows what the future holds. Speculation is worthless, and it'll only keep him from the here and now. Tonight, all he wants to do is enjoy Dutch's company, drink himself sick, and worry about tomorrow when it comes.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you again for reading! other people's OC's aren't often given a shot in fandom, so it means a lot to us that you read this fic!!


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